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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..eb2f42c --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55125 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55125) diff --git a/old/55125-0.txt b/old/55125-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c5d0f49..0000000 --- a/old/55125-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16882 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Madam, 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: Madam - A Novel - -Author: Mrs. Oliphant - -Release Date: July 16, 2017 [EBook #55125] -[Last updated: July 26, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADAM *** - - - - -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) - - - - - - - - - - - - - MADAM - A Novel - - BY MRS. OLIPHANT - AUTHOR OF “THE LADIES LINDORES” ETC. - - NEW YORK - HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE - 1885 - - - - - BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - - AGNES. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - A SON OF THE SOIL. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1 00. - BROWNLOWS. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - CARITA. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - FOR LOVE AND LIFE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - HARRY JOSCELYN. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. - HESTER. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. - HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. - INNOCENT. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. - JOHN. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. - KATIE STEWART. 8vo, Paper, 20 cents. - LADY JANE. 8vo, Paper, 10 cents. - LIFE OF EDWARD IRVING. 8vo, $3 50. - LUCY CROFTON. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. - MADAM. 16mo, Cloth, 15 cents; 4to, Paper, 25 cents. - MADONNA MARY. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - MISS MARJORIBANKS. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - MRS. ARTHURS. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. - OMBRA. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - PHOEBE JUNIOR. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. - SIR TOM. 4to, Paper 20 cents. - SKETCH OF SHERIDAN. 12mo, 75 cents. - SQUIRE ARDEN. 8vo, Paper. 50 cents. - THE ATHELINGS. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. - THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 8vo, Paper, 20 cents. - THE DAYS OF MY LIFE. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. - THE FUGITIVES. 4to, Paper, 10 cents. - THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. - THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. - THE LADIES LINDORES. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper, 90 cents. - THE LAIRD OF NORLAW. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. - THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS. 12 mo, Cloth, $1 50. - THE MINISTER’S WIFE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - THE PERPETUAL CURATE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1 00. - THE PRIMROSE PATH. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - THE QUEEN. Illustrated. 4to, Paper, 25 cents. - THE QUIET HEART. 8vo, Paper, 20 cents. - THE WIZARD’S SON. 4to, Paper, 25 cents. - VALENTINE AND HIS BROTHER. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. - WITHIN THE PRECINCTS. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. - YOUNG MUSGRAVE. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. - - PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. - -☛ _Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, - to any part of the United States, - on receipt of the price._ - - - - -MADAM. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -A large drawing-room in a country-house, in the perfect warmth, -stillness, and good order of after-dinner, awaiting the ladies coming -in; the fire perfection, reflecting itself in all the polished brass and -steel and tiles of the fireplace; the atmosphere just touched with the -scent of the flowers on the tables; the piano open, with candles lit -upon it; some pretty work laid out upon a stand near the fire, books on -another, ready for use, velvet curtains drawn. The whole softly, fully -lighted, a place full of every gentle luxury and comfort in -perfection--the scene prepared, waiting only the actors in it. - -It is curious to look into a centre of life like this, all ready for the -human affairs about to be transacted there. Tragedy or comedy, who can -tell which? the clash of human wills, the encounter of hearts, or -perhaps only that serene blending of kindred tastes and inclinations -which makes domestic happiness. Who was coming in? A fair mother, with a -flock of girls fairer still, a beautiful wife adding the last grace to -the beautiful place? some fortunate man’s crown of well-being and -happiness, the nucleus of other happy homes to come? - -A pause: the fire only crackling now and then, a little burst of flame -puffing forth, the clock on the mantelpiece chiming softly. Then there -entered alone a young lady about eighteen, in the simple white dinner -dress of a home party; a tall, slight girl, with smooth brown hair, and -eyes for the moment enlarged with anxiety and troubled meaning. She came -in not as the daughter of the house in ordinary circumstances comes in, -to take her pleasant place, and begin her evening occupation, whatever -it may be. Her step was almost stealthy, like that of a pioneer, -investigating anxiously if all was safe in a place full of danger. Her -eyes, with the lids curved over them in an anxiety almost despairing, -seemed to plunge into and search through and through the absolute -tranquillity of this peaceful place. Then she said in a half-whisper, -the intense tone of which was equal to a cry, “Mother!” Nothing stirred: -the place was so warm, so perfect, so happy; while this one human -creature stood on the threshold gazing--as if it had been a desert full -of nothing but trouble and terror. She stood thus only for a moment, and -then disappeared. It was a painful intrusion, suggestive of everything -that was most alien to the sentiment of the place: when she withdrew it -fell again into that soft beaming of warmth and brightness waiting for -the warmer interest to come. - -The doorway in which she had stood for that momentary inspection, which -was deep in a solid wall, with two doors, in case any breath of cold -should enter, opened into a hall, very lofty and fine, a sort of centre -to the quiet house. Here the light was dimmer, the place being deserted, -though it had an air of habitation, and the fire still smouldered in the -huge chimney, round which chairs were standing. Sounds of voices muffled -by closed doors and curtains came from the farther side where the -dining-room was. The young lady shrank from this as if her noiseless -motion could have been heard over the sounds of the male voices there. -She hurried along to the other end of the hall, which lay in darkness -with a glimmer of pale sky showing between the pillars from without. The -outer doors were not yet shut. The inner glass door showed this paleness -of night, with branches of trees tossing against a gray heaven full of -flying clouds--the strangest weird contrast to all the warmth and luxury -within. The girl shivered as she came in sight of that dreary outer -world. This was the opening of the park in front of the house, a width -of empty space, and beyond it the commotion of the wind, the stormy show -of the coursing clouds. She went close to the door and gazed out, -pressing her forehead against the glass, and searching the darkness, as -she had done the light, with anxious eyes. She stood so for about five -minutes, and then she breathed an impatient sigh. “What is the good?” -she said to herself, half aloud. - -Here something stirred near her which made her start, at first with an -eager movement of hope. Then a low voice said--“No good at all, Miss -Rosalind. Why should you mix yourself up with what’s no concern of -yours?” - -Rosalind had started violently when she recognized the voice, but -subdued herself while the other spoke. She answered, with quiet -self-restraint: “Is it you, Russell? What are you doing here? You will -make it impossible for me to do anything for you if you forget your own -place!” - -“I am doing what my betters are doing, Miss Rosalind--looking out for -Madam, just as you are.” - -“How dare you say such things! I--am looking out to see what sort of -night it is. It is very stormy. Go away at once. You have no right to be -here!” - -“I’ve been here longer than most folks--longer than them that has the -best opinion of themselves; longer than--” - -“Me perhaps,” said Rosalind. “Yes, I know--you came before I was born; -but you know what folly this is. Mamma,” the girl said, with a certain -tremor and hesitation, “will be very angry if she finds you here.” - -“I wish, Miss Rosalind, you’d have a little more respect for yourself. -It goes against me to hear you say mamma. And your own dear mamma, that -should have been lady of everything--” - -“Russell, I wish you would not be such a fool! My poor little mother -that died when I was born. And you to keep up a grudge like this for so -many years!” - -“And will, whatever you may say,” cried the woman, under her breath; -“and will, till I die, or till one of us--” - -“Go up-stairs,” said Rosalind, peremptorily, “at once! What have you to -do here? I don’t think you are safe in the house. If I had the power I -should send you away.” - -“Miss Rosalind, you are as cruel as-- You have no heart. Me, that nursed -you, and watched over you--” - -“It is too terrible a price to pay,” cried the girl, stamping her foot -on the floor. “Go! I will not have you here. If mamma finds you when she -comes down-stairs--” - -The woman laughed. “She will ask what you are doing here, Miss Rosalind. -It will not be only me she’ll fly out upon. What are you doing here? -Who’s outside that interests you so? It interests us both, that’s the -truth; only I am the one that knows the best.” - -Rosalind’s white figure flew across the faint light. She grasped the -shoulder of the dark shadow, almost invisible in the gloom. “Go!” she -cried in her ear, pushing Russell before her; the onslaught was so -sudden and vehement that the woman yielded and disappeared reluctantly, -gliding away by one of the passages that led to the other part of the -house. The girl stood panting and excited in the brief sudden fury of -her passion, a miserable sense of failing faith and inability to explain -to herself the circumstances in which she was, heightening the fervor of -her indignation. Were Russell’s suspicions true? Had she been in the -right all along? Those who take persistently the worst view of human -nature are, alas! so often in the right. And what is there more terrible -than the passion of defence and apology for one whom the heart begins to -doubt? The girl was young, and in her rage and pain could scarcely keep -herself from those vehement tears which are the primitive attribute of -passion. How calm she could have been had she been quite, quite sure! -How she had laughed at Russell’s prejudices in the old days when all was -well. She had even excused Russell, feeling that after all it was pretty -of her nurse to return continually to the image of her first -mistress--Rosalind’s own mother--and that in the uneducated mind the -prepossession against a stepmother, the wrath with which the woman saw -her own nursling supplanted, had a sort of feudal flavor which was -rather agreeable than otherwise. - -Rosalind had pardoned Russell as Mrs. Trevanion herself had pardoned -her. So long as all was well: so long as there was nothing mysterious, -nothing that baffled the spectator in the object of Russell’s -animadversions. But now something had fallen into life which changed it -altogether. To defend those we love from undeserved accusations is so -easy. And in books and plays, and every other exhibition of human nature -in fiction, the accused always possesses the full confidence of those -who love him. In ordinary cases they will not even hear any explanation -of equivocal circumstances--they know that guilt is impossible: it is -only those who do not know him who can believe anything so monstrous. -Alas! this is not so in common life--the most loving and believing -cannot always have that sublime faith. Sometimes doubt and fear gnaw the -very souls of those who are the champions, the advocates, the warmest -partisans of the accused. This terrible canker had got into Rosalind’s -being. She loved her stepmother with enthusiasm. She was ready to die in -her defence. She would not listen to the terrible murmur in her own -heart; but yet it was there. And as she stood and gazed out upon the -park, upon the wild bit of stormy sky, with the black tree-tops waving -wildly against it, she was miserable, as miserable as a heart of -eighteen ever was. Where had Madam gone, hurrying from the dinner-table -where she had smiled and talked and given no sign of trouble? She was -not in her room, nor in the nursery, nor anywhere that Rosalind could -think of. It was in reality a confession of despair, a sort of giving up -of the cause altogether, when the girl came to spy out into the wintry -world outside and look for the fugitive there. - -Rosalind had resisted the impulse to do so for many an evening. She had -paused by stealth in the dark window above in the corridor, and blushed -for herself and fled from that spy’s place. But by force of trouble and -doubt and anguish her scruples had been overcome, and now she had -accepted for herself this position of spy. If her fears had been -verified, and she had seen her mother cross that vacant space and steal -into the house, what the better would she have been? But there is in -suspicion a wild curiosity, an eagerness for certainty, which grows like -a fever. She had come to feel that she must know--whatever happened she -must be satisfied--come what would, that would be better than the -gnawing of this suspense. And she had another object too. Her father was -an invalid, exacting and fretful. If his wife was not ready at his call -whenever he wanted her, his displeasure was unbounded; and of late it -had happened many times that his wife had not been at his call. The -scenes that had followed, the reproaches, the insults even, to which the -woman whom she called mother had been subjected, had made Rosalind’s -heart sick. If she could but see her, hasten her return, venture to call -her, to bid her come quick, quick! it would be something. The girl was -not philosopher enough to say to herself that Madam would not come a -moment the sooner for being thus watched for. It takes a great deal of -philosophy to convince an anxious woman of this in any circumstances, -and Rosalind was in the pangs of a first trouble, the earliest anguish -she had ever known. After she had driven Russell away, she stood with -her face pressed against the glass and all her senses gone into her eyes -and ears. She heard, she thought, the twitter of the twigs in the wind, -the sharp sound now and then of one which broke and fell, which was like -a footstep on the path; besides the louder sweep of the tree-tops in the -wind, and on the other hand the muffled and faint sound of life from the -dining-room, every variation in which kept her in alarm. - -But it was in vain she gazed; nothing crossed the park except the sweep -of the clouds driven along the sky; nothing sounded in the air except -the wind, the trees, and sometimes the opening of a distant door or clap -of a gate; until the dining-room became more audible, a sound of chairs -pushed back and voices rising, warning the watcher. She flew like an -arrow through the hall, and burst into the still sanctuary of domestic -warmth and tranquillity as if she had been a hunted creature escaping -from a fatal pursuit with her enemies at her heels. Her hands were like -ice, her slight figure shivering with cold, yet her heart beating so -that she could scarcely draw her breath. All this must disappear before -the gentlemen came in. It was Rosalind’s first experience in that -strange art which comes naturally to a woman, of obliterating herself -and her own sensations; but how was she to still her pulse, to restore -her color, to bring warmth to her chilled heart? She felt sure that her -misery, her anguish of suspense, her appalling doubts and terrors, must -be written in her face; but it was not so. The emergency brought back a -rush of the warm blood tingling to her fingers’ ends. Oh never, never, -through her, must the mother she loved be betrayed! That brave impulse -brought color to her cheek and strength to her heart. She made one or -two of those minute changes in the room which a woman always finds -occasion for, drawing the card-table into a position more exactly like -that which her father approved, giving an easier angle to his chair, -with a touch moving that of Madam into position as if it had been risen -from that moment. Then Rosalind took up the delicate work that lay on -the table, and when the gentlemen entered was seated on a low seat -within the circle of the shaded lamp, warm in the glow of the genial -fireside, her pretty head bent a little over her pretty industry, her -hands busy. She who had been the image of anxiety and unrest a moment -before was now the culminating-point of all the soft domestic -tranquillity, luxury, boundless content and peace, of which this silent -room was the home. She looked up with a smile to greet them as they came -in. The brave girl had recovered her sweet looks, her color, and air of -youthful composure and self-possession, by sheer force of will, and -strain of the crisis in which she stood to maintain the honor of the -family at every hazard. She had been able to do that, but she could not -yet for the moment trust herself to speak. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The gentlemen who came into the drawing-room at Highcourt were four in -number: the master of the house, his brother, the doctor, and a young -man fresh from the university, who was a visitor. Mr. Trevanion was an -invalid; he had been a tall man, of what is called aristocratic -appearance; a man with fine, clearly cut features, holding his head -high, with an air “as if all the world belonged to him.” These fine -features were contracted by an expression of fastidious discontent and -dissatisfaction, which is not unusually associated with such universal -proprietorship, and illness had taken the flesh from his bones, and -drawn the ivory skin tightly over the high nose and tall, narrow -forehead. His lips were thin and querulous, his shoulders stooping, his -person as thin and angular as human form could be. When he had warmed -his ghostly hands at the fire, and seated himself in his accustomed -chair, he cast a look round him as if seeking some subject of complaint. -His eyes were blue, very cold, deficient in color, and looked out from -amid the puckers of his eyelids with the most unquestionable meaning. -They seemed to demand something to object to, and this want is one which -is always supplied. The search was but momentary, so that he scarcely -seemed to have entered the room before he asked, “Where is your mother?” -in a high-pitched, querulous voice. - -Mr. John Trevanion had followed his brother to the fire, and stood now -with his back to the blaze looking at Rosalind. His name was not in -reality John, but something much more ornamental and refined; but -society had availed itself of its well-known propensity in a more -judicious manner than usual, and rechristened him with the short and -manly monosyllable which suited his character. He was a man who had been -a great deal about the world, and had discovered of how little -importance was a Trevanion of Highcourt, and yet how it simplified life -to possess a well-known name. One of these discoveries without the other -is not improving to the character, but taken together the result is -mellowing and happy. He was very tolerant, very considerate, a man who -judged no one, yet formed very shrewd opinions of his own, upon which he -was apt to act, even while putting forth every excuse and acknowledging -every extenuating circumstance. He looked at Rosalind with a certain -veiled anxiety in his eyes, attending her answer with solicitude; but to -all appearance he was only spreading himself out as an Englishman loves -to do before the clear glowing fire. Dr. Beaton had gone as far away as -possible from that brilliant centre. He was stout, and disapproved, he -said, “on principle,” of the habit of gathering round the fireside. “Let -the room be properly warmed,” he was in the habit of saying, “but don’t -let us bask in the heat like the dogues,” for the doctor was Scotch, and -betrayed now and then in a pronunciation, and always in accent, his -northern origin. He had seated himself on the other side of the -card-table, ready for the invariable game. Young Roland Hamerton, the -Christchurch man, immediately gravitated towards Rosalind, who, to tell -the truth, could not have given less attention to him had he been one of -the above-mentioned “dogues.” - -“Where is your mother?” Mr. Trevanion said, looking round for matter of -offence. - -“Oh!” said Rosalind, with a quick drawing of her breath; “mamma has gone -for a moment to the nursery--I suppose.” She drew breath again before -the last two words, thus separating them from what had gone before--a -little artifice which Uncle John perceived, but no one else. - -“Now this is a strange thing,” said Mr. Trevanion, “that in my own -house, and in my failing state of health, I cannot secure my own wife’s -attention at the one moment in the day when she is indispensable to me. -The nursery! What is there to do in the nursery? Is not Russell there? -If the woman is not fit to be trusted, let her be discharged at once and -some one else got.” - -“Oh! it is not that there is any doubt about Russell, papa, only one -likes to see for one’s self.” - -“Then why can’t she send you to see for yourself. This is treatment I am -not accustomed to. Oh, what do I say? Not accustomed to it! Of course I -am accustomed to be neglected by everybody. A brat of a child that never -ailed anything in its life is to be watched over, while I, a dying man, -must take my chance. I have put up with it for years, always hoping that -at last-- But the worm will turn, you know; the most patient will break -down. If I am to wait night after night for the one amusement, the one -little pleasure, such as it is-- Night after night! I appeal to you, -doctor, whether Mrs. Trevanion has been ready once in the last -fortnight. The only thing that I ask of her--the sole paltry little -complaisance--” - -He spoke very quickly, allowing no possibility of interruption, till his -voice, if we may use such a word, overran itself and died away for want -of breath. - -“My dear sir,” said the doctor, taking up the cards, “we are just enough -for our rubber; and, as I have often remarked, though I bow to the -superiority of the ladies in most things, whist, in my opinion, is -altogether a masculine game. Will you cut for the deal?” - -But by this time Mr. Trevanion had recovered his breath. “It is what I -will not put up with,” he said; “everybody in this house relies upon my -good-nature. I am always the _souffre-douleur_. When a man is too easy -he is taken advantage of on all hands. Where is your mother? Oh, I mean -your stepmother, Rosalind; her blood is not in your veins, thank Heaven! -You are a good child; I have no reason to find fault with you. Where is -she? The nursery? I don’t believe anything about the nursery. She is -with some of her low friends; yes, she has low friends. Hold your -tongue, John; am I or am I not the person that knows best about my own -wife? Where is your mistress? Where is Madam? Don’t stand there looking -like a stuck pig, but speak!” - -This was addressed to an unlucky footman who had come in prowling on one -of the anonymous errands of domestic service--to see if the fire wanted -looking to--if there were any coffee-cups unremoved--perhaps on a -mission of curiosity, too. Mr. Trevanion was the terror of the house. -The man turned pale and lost his self-command. “I--I don’t know, sir. -I--I think, sir, as Madam--I--I’ll send Mr. Dorrington, sir,” the -unfortunate said. - -John Trevanion gave his niece an imperative look, saying low, “Go and -tell her.” Rosalind rose trembling and put down her work. The footman -had fled, and young Hamerton, hurrying to open the door to her (which -was never shut) got in her way and brought upon himself a glance of -wrath which made him tremble. He retreated with a chill running through -him, wondering if the Trevanion temper was in her too, while the master -of the house resumed. However well understood such explosions of family -disturbance may be, they are always embarrassing and uncomfortable to -visitors, and young Hamerton was not used to them and did not know what -to make of himself. He withdrew to the darker end of the room, where it -opened into a very dimly lighted conservatory, while the doctor shuffled -the cards, letting them drop audibly through his fingers, and now and -then attempting to divert the flood of rising rage by a remark. “Bless -me,” he said, “I wish I had been dealing in earnest; what a bonnie thing -for a trump card!” and, “A little farther from the fire, Mr. Trevanion, -you are getting overheated; come, sir, the young fellow will take a hand -to begin with, and after the first round another player can cut in.” -These running interruptions, however, were of little service; Mr. -Trevanion’s admirable good-nature which was always imposed upon; his -long-suffering which everybody knew; the advantage the household -took of him; the special sins of his wife for whom he had done -everything--“Everything!” he cried; “I took her without a penny or a -friend, and this is how she repays me”--afforded endless scope. It was -nothing to him in his passion that he disclosed what had been the -secrets of his life; and, indeed, by this time, after the perpetual -self-revelation of these fits of passion there were few secrets left to -keep. His ivory countenance reddened, his thin hands gesticulated, he -leaned forward in his chair, drawing up the sharp angles of his knees, -as he harangued about himself and his virtues and wrongs. His brother -stood and listened, gazing blankly before him as if he heard nothing. -The doctor sat behind, dropping the cards from one hand to another with -a little rustling sound, and interposing little sentences of soothing -and gentle remonstrance, while the young man, ashamed to be thus forced -into the confidence of the family, edged step by step farther away into -the conservatory till he got to the end, where was nothing but a -transparent wall of glass between him and the agitations of the stormy -night. - -Rosalind stole out into the hall with a beating heart. Her father’s -sharp voice still echoed in her ears, and she had an angry and ashamed -consciousness that the footman who had hurried from the room before her, -and perhaps other servants, excited by the crisis, were watching her and -commenting upon the indecision with which she stood, not knowing what to -do. “Go and tell her.” How easy it was to say so! Oh, if she but knew -where to go, how to find her, how to save her not only from domestic -strife but from the gnawing worm of suspicion and doubt which Rosalind -felt in her own heart! What was she to do? Should she go up-stairs again -and look through all the rooms, though she knew it would be in vain? To -disarm her father’s rage, to smooth over this moment of misery and put -things back on their old footing, the girl would have done anything; -but as the moments passed she became more and more aware that this was -not nearly all that was wanted, that even she herself, loving Mrs. -Trevanion with all her heart, required more. Her judgment cried out for -more. She wanted explanation; a reason for these strange disappearances. -Why should she choose that time of all others when her absence must be -so much remarked; and where, oh, where did she go? Rosalind stood with a -sort of stupefied sense of incapacity in the hall. She would not go -back. She could not pretend to make a search which she knew to be -useless. She could not rush to the door again and watch there, with the -risk of being followed and found at that post, and thus betray her -suspicion that her mother was out of the house. She went and stood by -one of the pillars and leaned against it, clasping her hands upon her -heart and trying to calm herself and to find some expedient. Could she -say that little Jack was ill, that something had happened? in the -confusion of her mind she almost lost the boundary between falsehood and -truth; but then the doctor would be sent to see what was the matter, and -everything would be worse instead of better. She stood thus against the -pillar and did not move, trying to think, in a whirl of painful -imaginations and self-questionings, feeling every moment an hour. Oh, if -she could but take it upon herself, and bear the weight, whatever it -might be; but she was helpless and could do nothing save wait there, -hidden, trembling, full of misery, till something should happen to set -her free. - -Young Hamerton in the conservatory naturally had none of these fears. He -thought that old Trevanion was (as indeed everybody knew) an old tyrant, -a selfish, ill-tempered egoist, caring for nothing but his own -indulgences. How he did treat that poor woman, to be sure! a woman far -too good for him whether it was true or not that he had married her -without a penny. He remembered vaguely that he had never heard who Madam -Trevanion was before her marriage. But what of that? He knew what she -was: a woman still full of grace and charm, though she was no longer in -her first youth. And what a life that old curmudgeon, that selfish old -skeleton, with all his fantastical complaints, led her! When a young man -has the sort of chivalrous admiration for an elder woman which Roland -Hamerton felt for the mistress of this house, he becomes sharp to see -the curious subjection, the cruelty of circumstances, the domestic -oppressions which encircle so many. And Madam Trevanion was more badly -off, more deeply tried, than any other woman, far or near. She was full -of spirit and intelligence, and interest in the higher matters of life; -yet she was bound to this fretful master, who would not let her out of -his sight, who cared for nothing better than a society newspaper, and -who demanded absolute devotion, and the submission of all his wife’s -wishes and faculties to his. Poor lady! no wonder if she were glad to -escape now and then for a moment, to get out of hearing of his sharp -voice, which went through your ears like a skewer. - -While these thoughts went through young Hamerton’s mind he had gradually -made his way through the conservatory, in which there was but one dim -lamp burning, to the farther part, which projected out some way with a -rounded end into the lawn which immediately surrounded the house. He was -much startled, as he looked cautiously forth, without being aware that -he was looking, to see something moving, like a repetition of the waving -branches and clouds above close to him upon the edge of a path which led -through the park. At first it was but movement and no more, -indistinguishable among the shadows. But he was excited by what he had -been hearing, and his attention was aroused. After a time he could make -out two figures more or less distinct, a man he thought and a woman, but -both so dark that it was only when by moments they appeared out of the -tree-shadows, with which they were confused, against the lighter color -of the gravel that he could make them out. They parted while he looked -on; the man disappeared among the trees; the other, he could see her -against the faint lightness of the distance, stood looking after the -retreating figure; and then turned and came towards the house. Young -Hamerton’s heart leaped up in his breast. What did it mean? Did he -recognize the pose of the figure, the carriage of the head, the fine -movement, so dignified yet so free? He seized hold on himself, so to -speak, and put a violent stop to his own thoughts. She! madness! as soon -would he suppose that the queen could do wrong. It must be her maid, -perhaps some woman who had got the trick of her walk and air through -constant association: but she-- - -Just then, while Hamerton retired somewhat sick at heart, and seated -himself near the door of the conservatory to recover, cursing as he did -so the sharp, scolding tones of Mr. Trevanion going on with his -grievances, Rosalind, standing against the pillar, was startled by -something like a step or faint stir outside, and then the sound, which -would have been inaudible to faculties less keen and highly strung, of -the handle of the glass door. It was turned almost noiselessly and some -one came in. Some one. Whom? With a shiver which convulsed her, Rosalind -watched: this dark figure might be any one--her mother’s maid, perhaps, -even Russell, gone out to pry and spy as was her way. Rosalind had to -clutch the pillar fast as she watched from behind while the new-comer -took a shawl from her head, and, sighing, arranged with her hands her -head-dress and hair. Whatever had happened to her she was not happy. She -sighed as she set in order the lace upon her head. Alas! the sight of -that lace was enough, the dim light was enough: no one else in the house -moved like that. It was the mother, the wife, the mistress of Highcourt, -Madam Trevanion, whom all the country looked up to for miles and miles -around. Rosalind could not speak. She detached her arms from the pillar -and followed like a white ghost as her stepmother moved towards the -drawing-room. In the night and dark, in the stormy wind amid all those -black trees, where had she been? - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -“I married her without a penny,” Mr. Trevanion was saying. “I was a fool -for my pains. If you think you will purchase attention and submission in -that way you are making a confounded mistake. Set a beggar on horseback, -that’s how it ends. A duke’s daughter couldn’t stand more by her own -way; no, nor look more like a lady,” he added with a sort of pride in -his property; “that must be allowed her. I married her without a penny; -and this is how she serves me. If she had brought a duchy in her apron, -or the best blood in England, like Rosalind’s mother, my first poor -wife, whom I regret every day of my life-- O-h-h!--so you have -condescended, Madam, to come at last.” - -She was a tall woman, with a figure full of dignity and grace. If it was -true that nobody knew who she was, it was at least true also, as even -her husband allowed, that she might have been a princess so far as her -bearing and manners went. She was dressed in soft black satin which did -not rustle or assert itself, but hung in long sweeping folds, here and -there broken in outline by feathery touches of lace. Her dark hair was -still perfect in color and texture. Indeed, she was still under forty, -and the prime of her beauty scarcely impaired. There was a little fitful -color on her cheek, though she was usually pale, and her eyes had a kind -of feverish, suspicious brightness like sentinels on the watch for -danger signals. Yet she came in without hurry, with a smile from one to -another of the group of gentlemen, none of whom showed, whatever they -may have felt, any emotion. John Trevanion, still blank and quiet -against the firelight; the doctor, though he lifted his eyes -momentarily, still dropping through his hands, back and forwards, the -sliding, smooth surfaces of the cards. From the dimness in the -background Hamerton’s young face shone out with a sort of Medusa look of -horror and pain, but he was so far out of the group that he attracted no -notice. Mrs. Trevanion made no immediate reply to her husband. She -advanced into the room, Rosalind following her like a shadow. “I am -sorry,” she said calmly, “to be late: have you not begun your rubber? I -knew there were enough without me.” - -“There’s never enough without you,” her husband answered roughly; “you -know that as well as I do. If there were twice enough, what has that to -do with it? You know my play, which is just the one thing you do know. -If a man can’t have his wife to make up his game, what is the use of a -wife at all? And this is not the first time, Madam; by Jove, not the -first time by a dozen. Can’t you take another time for your nap, or your -nursery, or whatever it is? I don’t believe a word of the nursery. It is -something you don’t choose to have known, it is some of your low--” - -“Rosalind, your father has no footstool,” said Mrs. Trevanion. She -maintained her calm unmoved. “There are some fresh cards, doctor, in the -little cabinet.” - -“And how the devil,” cried the invalid, in his sharp tones, “can I have -my footstool, or clean cards, or anything I want when you are -away--systematically away? I believe you do it on purpose to set up a -right--to put me out in every way, that goes without saying, that -everybody knows, is the object of your life.” - -Still she did not utter a word of apology, but stooped and found the -footstool, which she placed at her husband’s feet. “This is the one that -suits you best,” she said. “Come, John, if I am the culprit, let us lose -no more time.” - -Mr. Trevanion kicked the footstool away. “D’ye think I am going to be -smoothed down so easily?” he cried. “Oh, yes, as soon as Madam pleases, -that is the time for everything. I shall not play. You can amuse -yourselves if you please, gentlemen, at Mrs. Trevanion’s leisure, when -she can find time to pay a little attention to her guests. Give me those -newspapers, Rosalind. Oh, play, play! by all means play! don’t let me -interrupt your amusement. A little more neglect, what does that matter? -I hope I am used to-- Heaven above! they are not cut up. What is that -rascal Dorrington about? What is the use of a pack of idle servants? -never looked after as they ought to be; encouraged, indeed, to neglect -and ill-use the master that feeds them. What can you expect? With a -mistress who is shut up half her time, or out of the way or--What’s -that? what’s that?” - -It was a singular thing enough, and this sudden exclamation called all -eyes to it. Mrs. Trevanion, who had risen when her husband kicked his -footstool in her face, and, turning round, had taken a few steps across -the room, stopped with a slight start, which perhaps betrayed some alarm -in her, and looked back. The train of her dress was sweeping over the -hearthrug, and there in the full light, twisted into her lace, and -clinging to her dress, was a long, straggling, thorny branch, all wet -with the damp of night. Involuntarily they were all gazing-- John -Trevanion looking down gravely at this strange piece of evidence which -was close to his feet; the doctor, with the cards in his hand, half -risen from his seat stooping across the table to see; while Rosalind, -throwing herself down, had already begun to detach it with hands that -trembled. - -“Oh, mamma!” cried the girl, with a laugh which sounded wild, “how -careless, how horrid of Jane! Here is a thorn that caught in your dress -the last time you wore it; and she has folded it up in your train, and -never noticed. Papa is right, the servants are--” - -“Hold your tongue, Rose,” said Mr. Trevanion, with an angry chuckle of -satisfaction; “let alone! So, Madam, this is why we have to wait for -everything; this is why the place is left to itself; and I--I--the -master and owner, neglected. Good heavens above! while the lady of the -house wanders in the woods in a November night. With whom, Madam? With -whom?” he raised himself like a skeleton, his fiery eyes blazing out of -their sockets. “With whom, I ask you? Here, gentlemen, you are -witnesses; this is more serious than I thought. I knew my wishes were -disregarded, that my convenience was set at naught, that the very -comforts that are essential to my life were neglected, but I did not -think I was betrayed. With whom, Madam? Answer! I demand his name.” - -“Reginald,” said John Trevanion, “for God’s sake don’t let us have -another scene. You may think what you please, but we know all that is -nonsense. Neglected! Why she makes herself your slave. If the other is -as true as that! Doctor, can’t you put a stop to it? He’ll kill -himself--and her.” - -“Her! oh, she’s strong enough,” cried the invalid. “I have had my -suspicions before, but I have never uttered them. Ah, Madam! you thought -you were too clever for me. A sick man, unable to stir out of the house, -the very person, of course, to be deceived. But the sick man has his -defenders. Providence is on his side. You throw dust in the eyes of -these men; but I know you; I know what I took you from; I’ve known all -along what you were capable of. Who was it? Heaven above! down, down on -your knees, and tell me his name.” - -Mrs. Trevanion was perfectly calm, too calm, perhaps, for the -unconsciousness of innocence; and she was also deadly pale. “So far as -the evidence goes,” she said quietly, “I do not deny it. It has not been -folded up in my train, my kind Rosalind. I have been out of doors; -though the night, as you see, is not tempting; and what then?” - -She turned round upon them with a faint smile, and took the branch out -of Rosalind’s hand. “You see it is all wet,” she said, “there is no -deception in it. I have been out in the park, on the edge of the woods. -Look, I did not stop even to change my shoes, they are wet too. And what -then?” - -“One thing,” cried the doctor, “that you must change them directly, -before another word is said. This comes in my department, at least. We -don’t want to have you laid up with congestion of the lungs. Miss -Rosalind, take your mamma away, and make her, as we say in Scotland, -change her feet.” - -“Let her go altogether, if she pleases,” said the invalid; “I want to -see no more of her. In the park, in the woods--do you hear her, -gentlemen? What does a woman want in the woods in a winter night? Let -her have congestion of the lungs, it will save disgrace to the family. -For, mark my words, I will follow this out. I will trace it to the -foundation. Night after night she has done it. Oh, you think I don’t -know? She has done it again and again. She has been shameless; she has -outraged the very house where-- Do you hear, woman? Who is it? My God! a -groom, or some low fellow--” - -The doctor grasped his arm with a hand that thrilled with indignation as -well as professional zeal, while John Trevanion started forward with a -sudden flush and menace-- - -“If you don’t respect your wife, for God’s sake think of the girl--your -own child! If it were not for their sakes I should not spend another -night under this roof--” - -“Spend your night where you please,” said the infuriated husband, -struggling against the doctor’s attempt to draw him back into his chair. -“If I respect her? No, I don’t respect her. I respect nobody that -ill-uses me. Get out of the way, Rosalind! I tell you I’ll turn out that -woman. I’ll disgrace her. I’ll show what she’s made of. She’s thrown -dust in all your eyes, but never in mine. No, Madam, never in mine; -you’ve forgotten, I suppose, what you were when I took you and married -you, like a fool--but I’ve never forgotten; and now to break out at your -age? Who do you suppose can care for you at your age? It is for what he -can get, the villain, that he comes over an old hag like you. Oh, women, -women! that’s what women are. Turn out on a winter’s night to philander -in the woods with some one, some--” - -He stopped, incapable of more, and fell back in his chair, and glared -and foamed insults with his bloodless lips which he had not breath to -speak. - -Mrs. Trevanion stood perfectly still while all this was going on. Her -face showed by its sudden contraction when the grosser accusations told, -but otherwise she made no movement. She held the long, dangling branch -in her hand, and looked at it with a sort of half-smile. It was so small -a matter to produce so much--and yet it was not a small matter. Was it -the hand of fate! Was it Providence, as he said, that was on his side! -But she did not say another word in self-defence. It was evident that it -was her habit to stand thus, and let the storm beat. Her calm was the -resignation of long usage, the sense that it was beyond remedy, that the -only thing she could do was to endure. And yet the accusations of this -evening were new, and there was something new in the contemplative way -in which she regarded this piece of evidence which had convicted her. -Hitherto the worst accusations that had rained upon her had been without -evidence, without possibility--and everybody had been aware that it was -so. Now there was something new. When she had borne vituperation almost -as violent for her neglect, for her indifference, sometimes for her -cruelty, the wrong had been too clear for any doubt. But now: never -before had there even been anything to explain. But the bramble was a -thing that demanded explanation. Even John Trevanion, the just and kind, -had shown a gleam of surprise when he caught sight of it. The good -doctor, who was entirely on her side, had given her a startled look. -Rosalind, her child, had put forth a hesitating plea--a little lie for -her. All this went to her heart with a wringing of pain, as if her very -heart had been crushed with some sudden pressure. But the habit of -endurance was unbroken even by these secret and novel pangs. She did not -even meet the eyes directed to her with any attempt at self-defence. But -yet the position was novel; and standing still in her old panoply of -patience, she felt it to be so, and that former expedients were -inadequate to the occasion. For the first time it would have better -become her to speak. But what? She had nothing to say. - -The scene ended as such scenes almost invariably ended here--in an -attack of those spasms which were wearing Mr. Trevanion’s life away. The -first symptoms changed in a moment the aspect of his wife. She put down -the guilty bramble and betook herself at once to her oft-repeated, -well-understood duty. The room was cleared of all the spectators, even -Rosalind was sent away. It was an experience with which the house was -well acquainted. Mrs. Trevanion’s maid came noiselessly and swift at the -sound of a bell, with everything that was needed; and the wife, so -angrily vituperated and insulted, became in a moment the devoted nurse, -with nothing in her mind save the care of the patient who lay helpless -in her hands. The doctor sat by with his finger on the fluttering -pulse--while she, now fanning, now bathing his forehead, following every -variation and indication of the attack, fulfilled her arduous duties. It -did not seem to cross her mind that anything had passed which could -slacken her vigilance or make her reluctant to fulfil those -all-absorbing duties; neither when the patient began to moan did there -seem any consciousness in him that the circumstances were anyhow -changed. He began to scold in broken terms almost before he had -recovered consciousness, demanding to know why he was there, what they -were doing to him, what was the occasion of the appliances they had been -using. “I’m all right,” he stammered, before he could speak, pushing -away the fan she was using. “You want to kill me. Don’t let her kill me, -doctor; take that confounded thing away. I’m--I’m--all right; I--I want -to get to bed. You are keeping me out of bed, on purpose--to kill me!” -he cried with a new outburst. “That is all right; he’ll do now,” said -the doctor, cheerfully. “Wait a moment, and we’ll get you to bed--” The -peaceful room had changed in the most curious way while all these rapid -changes had gone on. The very home of tranquillity at first, then a -stage of dramatic incident and passion, now a scene in which feeble life -was struggling with the grip of death at its throat. Presently all this -commotion and movement was over, and the palpitations of human existence -swept away, leaving, indeed, a little disorder in the surroundings; a -cushion thrown about, a corner of the carpet turned up, a tray with -water-bottles and essences on the table: but nothing more to mark the -struggle, the conflicts which had been, the suffering and misery. Yes; -one thing more: the long trail of bramble on another table, which was -the most fatal symbol of all. - -When everything was quiet young Hamerton, with a pale face, came out of -the conservatory. He had again retreated there when Mrs. Trevanion came -in, and the husband had begun to rage. It pained him to be a party to -it; to listen to all the abuse poured upon her was intolerable. But what -was more intolerable still was to remember what he had seen. That woman, -standing so pale and calm, replying nothing, bearing every insult with a -nobleness which would have become a saint. But, oh heavens! was it her -he had seen--her--under shelter of the night? The young man was generous -and innocent, and his heart was sick with this miserable knowledge. He -was in her secret. God help her! Surely she had excuse enough; but what -is to become of life or womanhood when such a woman requires an excuse -at all? - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The hall was dimly lighted, the fire dying out in the great fireplace, -everything shadowy, cold, without cheer or comfort. Mr. Trevanion had -been conveyed to his room between the doctor and his valet, his wife -following, as usual, in the same order and fashion as was habitual, -without any appearance of change. Rosalind, who was buried in a great -chair, nothing visible but the whiteness of her dress in the imperfect -light, and John Trevanion, who stood before the fire there as he had -done in the drawing-room, with his head a little bent, and an air of -great seriousness and concern, watched the little procession without a -word as it went across the hall. These attacks were too habitual to -cause much alarm; and the outburst of passion which preceded was, -unfortunately, common enough also. The house was not a happy house in -which this volcano was ready to burst forth at any moment, and the usual -family subterfuges to conceal the family skeleton had become of late -years quite impossible, as increasing weakness and self-indulgence had -removed all restraints of self-control from the master of the house. -They were all prepared for the outbreak at any moment, no matter who was -present. But yet there were things involved which conveyed a special -sting to-night. When the little train had passed, the two spectators in -the hall remained for some time quite silent, with a heaviness and -oppression upon them which, perhaps, the depressing circumstances -around, the want of light and warmth and brightness, increased. They did -not, as on ordinary occasions, return to the drawing-room. For some time -they said nothing to each other. By intervals a servant flitted across -the hall, from one room to another, or the opening of a door roused -these watchers for a moment; but presently everything fell back into -stillness and the chill of the gathering night. - -“Rosalind, I think you should go to bed--” - -“Oh, Uncle John, how can I go to bed? How can any one in this house rest -or sleep?” - -“My dear, I admit that the circumstances are not very cheerful. Still, -you are more or less accustomed to them; and we shall sleep all the -same, no doubt, just as we should sleep if we were all to be executed -to-morrow.” - -“Should we? but not if some one else, some one we loved--was to -be--executed, as you say.” - -“Perhaps that makes a little difference: while the condemned man sleeps, -I suppose his mother or his sister, poor wretches, are wakeful enough. -But there is nothing of that kind in our way, my little Rose. Come! it -is no worse than usual: go to bed.” - -“It is worse than usual. There has never before--oh!” the girl cried, -clasping her hands together with a vehement gesture. Her misery was too -much for her: and then another sentiment came in and closed her mouth. -Uncle John was very tender and kind, but was he not on _the other side_? - -“My dear,” he said gently, “I think it will be best not to discuss the -question. If there is something new in it, it will develop soon enough. -God forbid! I am little disposed, Rosalind, to think that there is -anything new.” - -She did not make any reply. Her heart was sore with doubt and suspicion; -the more strange these sentiments, all the more do they scorch and -sting. In the whirl which they introduced into her mind she had been -trying in vain to get any ground to stand upon. There might have been -explanations; but then how easy to give them, and settle the question. -It is terrible, in youth, to be thrown into such a conflict of mind, and -all the more to one who has never been used to think out anything alone, -who has shared with another every thought that arose in her, and -received on everything the interchanged ideas of a mind more -experienced, wiser, than her own. She was thus suddenly cut off from her -anchors, and felt herself drifting on wild currents unknown to her, -giddy, as if buffeted by wind and tide--though seated there within the -steadfast walls of an old house which had gone through all extremities -of human emotion, and never quivered, through hundreds of troublous -years. - -“I think,” said John Trevanion, after a pause, “that it would be good -for you to have a little change. Home, of course, is the best place for -a girl. Still, it is a great strain upon young nerves. I wonder we none -of us have ever thought of it before. Your aunt Sophy would be glad to -have you, and I could take you there on my way. I really think, -Rosalind, this would be the best thing you could do. Winter is closing -in, and in present circumstances it is almost impossible to have -visitors at Highcourt. Even young Hamerton, how much he is in the way; -though he is next to nobody, a young fellow! Come! you must not stay -here to wear your nerves to fiddlestrings. I must take you away.” - -She looked up at him with an earnest glance which he was very conscious -of, but did not choose to meet. “Why at this moment above all others?” -she said. - -“Why? that goes without saying, Rosalind. Your father, to my mind, has -never been so bad; and your-- I mean Madam--” - -“You mean my mother, Uncle John. Well! is she not my mother? I have -never known any other. Poor dear little mamma was younger than I am. I -never knew her. She is an angel in heaven, and she cannot be jealous of -any one on earth. So you think that because papa has never been so ill, -and my mother never had so much to bear, it would be the right thing for -me, the eldest, the one that can be of most use, to go away?” - -“She has her own children, Rosalind.” - -“Yes, to be sure. Rex, who is at school, and knows about as much of what -she needs as the dogs do; and little Sophy, who is barely nine. You must -think very little of Rosalind, uncle, if you think these children can -make up for me.” - -“I think a great deal of Rosalind; but we must be reasonable. I thought -a woman’s own children, however little worth they may be in themselves, -were more to her than any one else’s. Perhaps I am wrong, but that’s in -all the copybooks.” - -“You want to make me believe,” said Rosalind, with passion, “that I am -nobody’s child, that I have no right to love or any home in all the -world!” - -“My dear! this is madness, Rose. There is your father: and I hope even I -count for something; you are the only child I shall ever love. And your -aunt Sophy, for whom, in fact, I am pleading, gives you a sort of -adoration.” - -She got up hastily out of the great gloomy house of a chair and came -into the dim centre of light in which he stood, and clasped his arm with -her hands. “Uncle John,” she said, speaking very fast and almost -inarticulately, “I am very fond of you. You have always been so good and -kind; but I am her, and she is me. Don’t you understand? I have always -been with her since I was a child. Nobody but me has seen her cry and -break down. I know her all through and through. I think her thoughts, -not my own. There are no secrets between us. She does not require even -to speak, I know what she means without that. There are no secrets -between her and me--” - -“No secrets,” he said; “no secrets! Rosalind, are you so very sure of -that--now?” - -Her hands dropped from his arm: she went back and hid herself, as if -trying to escape from him and herself in the depths of the great chair; -and then there burst from her bosom, in spite of her, a sob--suppressed, -restrained, yet irrestrainable--the heaving of a bosom filled to -overflowing with unaccustomed misery and pain. - -John Trevanion did not take advantage of this piteous involuntary -confession. He paused a little, being himself somewhat overcome. “My -dear little girl,” he said at last, “I am talking of no terrible -separation. People who are the most devoted to each other, lovers even, -have to quit each other occasionally, and pay a little attention to -other ties. Come! you need not take this so tragically. Sophy is always -longing for you. Your father’s sister, and a woman alone in the world; -don’t you think she has a claim too?” - -Rosalind had got herself in check again while he was speaking. “You mean -a great deal more than that,” she said. - -Once more he was silent. He knew very well that he meant a great deal -more than that. He meant that his niece should be taken away from the -woman who was not her mother, a woman of whom he himself had no manner -of doubt, yet who, perhaps--how could any one tell?--was getting weary -of her thankless task, and looking forward to the freedom to come. John -Trevanion’s mind was not much more at rest than that of Rosalind. He had -never been supposed to be a partisan of his brother’s wife, but perhaps -his abstention from all enthusiasm on this subject was out of too much, -not too little feeling. He had been prejudiced against her at first; but -his very prejudice had produced a warm revulsion of feeling in her -favor, when he saw how she maintained her soul, as she went over the -worse than red-hot ploughshares of her long ordeal. It would have -injured, not helped her with her husband, had he taken her part; and -therefore he had refrained with so much steadiness and gravity, that to -Rosalind he had always counted as on the other side. But in his heart he -had never been otherwise than on the side of the brave woman who, -whether her motives had been good or bad in accepting that place, had -nevertheless been the most heroic of wives, the tenderest of mothers. It -gave him a tender pleasure to be challenged and defied by the generous -impetuosity of Rosalind, all in arms for the mother of her soul. -But--there was a but, terrible though it was to acknowledge it--he had -recognized, as soon as he arrived on this visit, before any indication -of suspicion had been given, that there was some subtile change in Madam -Trevanion--something furtive in her eye, a watchfulness, a standing on -her guard, which had never been there before. It revolted and horrified -him to doubt his sister-in-law; he declared to himself with anxious -earnestness that he did not, never would or could doubt her; and yet, in -the same breath, with that terrible indulgence which comes with -experience, began in an under-current of thought to represent to himself -her terrible provocations, the excuses she would have, the temptations -to which she might be subject. A man gets his imagination polluted by -the world even when he least wishes it. In the upper-current of his -soul he believed in her with faith unbounded; but underneath was a -little warping eddy, a slimy under-draught which brought up silently the -apologies, the reasons, the excuses for her. And if, by any -impossibility, it should be so, then was it not essential that Rosalind, -too pure to imagine, too young to know any evil or what it meant, or how -it could be, should be withdrawn? But he was no more happy than Rosalind -was, in the conflict of painful thoughts. - -“Yes; I mean more than that,” he resumed, after an interval. “I mean -that this house, at present, is not a comfortable place. You must see -now that even you cannot help Mrs. Trevanion much in what she has to go -through. I feel myself entirely _de trop_. No sympathy I could show her -would counter-balance the pain she must feel in having always present -another witness of your father’s abuse--” - -“Sympathy!” said Rosalind, with surprise. “I never knew you had any -sympathy. I have always considered you as on the other side.” - -“Does she think so?” he asked quickly, with a sharp sound of pain in his -voice; then recollected himself in another moment. “Ah, well,” he said, -“that’s natural, I suppose; the husband’s family are on his side--yes, -yes, no doubt she has thought so: the more right am I in my feeling that -my presence just now must be very distasteful. And even you, Rosalind; -think what she must feel to have all that dirt thrown at her in your -presence. Do you think the privilege of having a good cry, as you say, -when you are alone together, makes up to her for the knowledge that you -are hearing every sort of accusation hurled at her head? I believe in my -heart,” he added hurriedly, with a fictitious fervor, “that it would be -the greatest relief possible to her to have the house to herself, and -see us all, you included, go away.” - -Rosalind did not make any reply. She gazed at him from her dark corner -with dilated eyes, but he did not see the trouble of her look, nor -divine the sudden stimulus his words had given to the whirl of her -miserable thoughts. She said to herself that her mother would know, -whoever doubted her, that Rosalind never would doubt; and at the same -time there came a wondering horror of a question whether indeed her -mother would be glad to be rid of her, to have her out of the way, to -keep her at least unconscious of the other thing, the secret, perhaps -the wrong, that was taking place in those dark evening hours? Might it -be, as Uncle John said, better to fly, to turn her back upon any -revelation, to refuse to know what it was. The anguish of this conflict -of thought tore her unaccustomed heart in twain. And then she tried to -realize what the house would be without her, with that profound yet -perfectly innocent self-importance of youth which is at once so futile -and so touching. So sometimes a young creature dying will imagine, with -far more poignant regret than for any suffering of her own, the blank of -the empty room, the empty chair, the melancholy vacancy in the house, -when she or he has gone hence and is no more. Rosalind saw the great -house vacant of herself with a feeling that was almost more than she -could bear. When her mother came out of the sick-room, to whom would she -go for the repose, the soothing of perfect sympathy--upon whom would she -lean when her burden was more than she could bear? When Sophy’s lessons -were over, where would the child go? Who would write to Rex, and keep -upon the schoolboy the essential bond of home? Who would play with the -babies in the nursery when their mother was too much occupied to see -them? Mamma would have nobody but Russell, who hated her, and her own -maid Jane, who was like her shadow, and all the indifferent servants who -cared about little but their own comfort. As she represented all these -details of the picture to herself, she burst forth all at once into the -silence with a vehement “No, no!” John Trevanion had fallen into -thought, and the sound of her voice made him start. “No, no!” she cried, -“do you think, Uncle John, I am of so little use? Everybody, even papa, -would want me. Sometimes he will bid me sit down, that I am something -to look at, something not quite so aggravating as all the rest. Is not -that something for one’s father to say? And what would the children do -without me, and Duckworth, who cannot always see mamma about the dinner? -No, no, I am of use here, and it is my place. Another time I can go to -Aunt Sophy--later on, when papa is--better--when things are going -smoothly,” she said, with a quiver in her voice, holding back. And just -then the distant door of Mr. Trevanion’s room opened and closed, and the -doctor appeared, holding back the heavy curtains that screened away -every draught from the outer world. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -“Well,” said Dr. Beaton, rubbing his hands as he came forward, “at last -we are tolerably comfortable. I have got him to bed without much more -difficulty than usual, and I hope he will have a good night. But how -cold it is here! I suppose, however careful you may be, it is impossible -to keep draughts out of an apartment that communicates with the open -air. If you will take my advice, Miss Rosalind, you will get to your -warm room, and to bed, while your uncle and I adjourn to the -smoking-room, where there are creature comforts--” - -The doctor was always cheerful. He laughed as if all the incidents of -the evening had been the most pleasant in the world. - -“Is papa better, doctor?” - -“Is Mrs. Trevanion with my brother?” - -These two questions were asked together. The doctor answered them both -with a “Yes--yes--where would she be but with him? My dear sir, you are -a visitor, you are not used to our ways. All that is just nothing. He -cannot do without her. We know better, Miss Rosalind; we take it all -very easy. Come, come, there is nothing to be disturbed about. I will -have you on my hands if you don’t mind. My dear young lady, go to bed.” - -“I have been proposing that she should go to her aunt for a week or two -for a little change.” - -“The very best thing she could do. This is the worst time of the year -for Highcourt. So much vegetation is bad in November. Yes--change by all -means. But not,” said the doctor, with a little change of countenance, -“too long, and not too far away.” - -“Do you think,” said Rosalind, “that mamma will not want me to-night? -then I will go as you say. But if you think there is any chance that she -will want me--” - -“She will not leave the patient again. Good-night, Miss Rosalind, sleep -sound and get back your roses--or shall I send you something to make you -sleep? No? Well, youth will do it, which is best.” - -She took her candle, and went wearily up the great staircase, pausing, a -white figure in the gloom, to wave her hand to Uncle John before she -disappeared in the gallery above. The two men stood and watched her -without a word. A tender reverence and pity for her youth was in both -their minds. There was almost an oppression of self-restraint upon them -till she was out of sight and hearing. Then John Trevanion turned to his -companion: - -“I gather by what you say that you think my brother worse to-night.” - -“Not worse to-night; but only going the downhill road, and now and then -at his own will and pleasure putting on a spurt. The nearer you get to -the bottom the greater is the velocity. Sometimes the rate is terrifying -at the last.” - -“And you think, accordingly, that if she goes away it must not be too -far; she must be within reach of a hasty summons?” - -Dr. Beaton nodded his head several times in succession. “I may be -mistaken,” he said, “there is a vitality that fairly surprises me; but -that is in any other case what I should say.” - -“Have these outbursts of temper much to do with it? Are they -accelerating the end?” - -“That’s the most puzzling question you could ask. How is a poor medical -man, snatching his bit of knowledge as he can find it, to say yea or -nay? Oh yes, they have to do with it; everything has to do with it -either as cause or effect? If it were not perhaps for the temper, there -would be less danger with the heart; and if it were not for the weak -heart, there would be less temper. Do ye see? Body and soul are so -jumbled together, it is ill to tell which is which. But between them the -chances grow less and less. And you will see, by to-night’s experience, -it’s not very easy to put on the drag.” - -“And yet Mrs. Trevanion is nursing him, you say, as if nothing had -happened.” - -The doctor gave a strange laugh. “A sick man is a queer study,” he said, -“and especially an excitable person with no self-control and all nerves -and temper, like--if you will excuse me for saying so--your brother. Now -that he needs her he is very capable of putting all this behind him. He -will just ignore it, and cast himself upon her for everything, till he -thinks he can do without her again. Ah! it is quite a wonderful mystery, -the mind of a sick and selfish man.” - -“I was thinking rather of her,” said John Trevanion. - -“Oh! her?” said the doctor, waving his hand; “that’s simple. There’s -nothing complicated in that. She is the first to accept that grand -reason as conclusive, just that he has need of her. There’s a wonderful -philosophy in some women. When they come to a certain pitch they will -bear anything. And she is one of that kind. She will put it out of her -mind as I would put a smouldering bombshell out of this hall. At least,” -said the doctor, with that laugh which was so inappropriate, “I hope I -would do it, I hope I would not just run away. The thing with women is -that they cannot run away.” - -“These are strange subjects to discuss with--pardon me--a stranger; but -you are not a stranger--they can have no secrets from you. Doctor, tell -me, is the scene to-night a usual one? Was there nothing particular in -it?” - -John Trevanion fixed very serious eyes--eyes that held the person they -looked on fast, and would permit no escape--on the doctor’s face. The -other shifted about uneasily from one foot to the other, and did his -utmost to avoid that penetrating look. - -“Oh, usual enough, usual enough; but there might be certain special -circumstances,” he said. - -“You mean that Mrs. Trevanion--” - -“Well, if you will take my opinion, she had probably been to see the -coachman’s wife, who is far from well, poor body; I should say that was -it. It is across a bit of the park, far enough to account for -everything.” - -“But why then not give so simple a reason?” - -“Ah! there you beat me; how can I tell? The way in which a thing -presents itself to a woman’s mind is not like what would occur to you -and me.” - -“Is the coachman’s wife so great a favorite? Has she been ill long, and -is it necessary to go to see her every night?” - -“Mr. Trevanion,” said the doctor, “you are well acquainted with the -nature of evidence. I cannot answer all these questions. There is no one -near Highcourt, as you are aware, that does not look up to Madam; a -visit from her is better than physic. She has little time, poor lady, -for such kindness. With all that’s exacted from her, I cannot tell, for -my part, what other moment she can call her own.” - -John Trevanion would not permit the doctor to escape. He held him still -with his keen eyes. “Doctor,” he said, “I think I am as much concerned -as you are to prove her in the right, whatever happens; but it seems to -me you are a special pleader--making your theory to fit the -circumstances, ingenious rather than certain.” - -“Mr. John Trevanion,” said the doctor, solemnly, “there is one thing I -am certain of, that yon poor lady by your brother’s bedside is a good -woman, and that the life he leads her is just a hell on earth.” - -After this there was a pause. The two men stood no longer looking at -each other: they escaped from the scrutiny of each other, which they had -hitherto kept up, both somewhat agitated and shaken in the solicitude -and trouble of the house. - -“I believe all that,” said John Trevanion at last. “I believe every -word. Still-- But yet--” - -Dr. Beaton made no reply. Perhaps these monosyllables were echoing -through his brain too. He had known her for years, and formed his -opinion of her on the foundation of long and intimate knowledge. But -still--and yet: could a few weeks, a few days, undo the experience of -years? It was no crime to walk across the park at night, in the brief -interval which the gentlemen spent over their wine after dinner. Why -should not Madam Trevanion take the air at that hour if she pleased? -Still he made no answer to that breath of doubt. - -The conversation was interrupted by the servants who came to close doors -and windows, and perform the general shutting-up for the night. Neither -of the gentlemen was sorry for this interruption. They separated to make -that inevitable change in their dress which the smoking-room demands, -with a certain satisfaction in getting rid of the subject, if even for a -moment. But when Dr. Beaton reached, through the dim passages from which -all life had retired, that one centre of light and fellowship, the sight -of young Hamerton in his evening coat, with a pale and disturbed -countenance, brought back to him the subject he had been so glad to -drop. Hamerton had forgotten his dress-coat, and even that smoking-suit -which was the joy of his heart. He had been a prisoner in the -drawing-room, or rather in the conservatory, while that terrible scene -went on. Never in his harmless life had he touched the borders of -tragedy before, and he was entirely unmanned. The doctor found him -sitting nervously on the edge of a chair, peering into the fire, his -face haggard, his eyes vacant and bloodshot. “I say, doctor,” he said, -making a grasp at his arm, “I want to tell you; I was in there all the -time. What could I do? I couldn’t get out with the others. I had been in -the conservatory before--and I saw-- Good gracious, you don’t think I -wanted to see! I thought it was better to keep quiet than to show that I -had been there all the time.” - -“You ought to have gone away with the others,” said the doctor, “but -there is no great harm done; except to your nerves; you look quite -shaken. He was very bad. When a man lets himself go on every occasion, -and does and says exactly what he has a mind to, that’s what it ends in -at the last. It is, perhaps, as well that a young fellow like you should -know.” - -“Oh, hang it,” said young Hamerton, “that is not the worst. I never was -fond of old Trevanion. It don’t matter so much about him.” - -“You mean that to hear a man bullying his wife like that makes you wish -to kill him, eh? Well, that’s a virtuous sentiment; but she’s been long -used to it. Let us hope she is like the eels and doesn’t mind--” - -“It’s not that,” said the youth again. John Trevanion was in no hurry to -appear, and the young man’s secret scorched him. He looked round -suspiciously to make sure there was no one within sight or hearing. -“Doctor,” he said, “you are Madam’s friend. You take her side?” - -Dr. Beaton, who was a man of experience, looked at the agitation of his -companion with a good deal of curiosity and some alarm. “If she had a -side, yes, to the last of my strength.” - -“Then I don’t mind telling you. When he began to swear-- What an old -brute he is!” - -“Yes? when he began to swear--” - -“I thought they mightn’t like it, don’t you know? We’re old friends at -home, but still I have never been very much at Highcourt; so I thought -they mightn’t like to have me there. And I thought I’d just slip out of -the way into the conservatory, never thinking how I was to get back. I -went right in to the end part where there was no light. You can see out -into the park. I never thought of that. I was not thinking anything: -when I saw--” - -“Get it out, for Heaven’s sake! You had no right to be there. What did -you see? Some of the maids about--” - -“Doctor, I must get it off my mind. I saw Madam Trevanion parting -with--a man. I can’t help it, I must get it out. I saw her as plainly as -I see you.” - -The doctor was very much disturbed and pale, but he burst into a laugh. -“In a dark night like this! You saw her maid I don’t doubt, or a kitchen -girl with her sweetheart. At night all the cats are gray. And you think -it is a fine thing to tell a cock-and-bull story like this--you, a -visitor in the house?” - -“Doctor, you do me a great deal of injustice.” The young man’s heart -heaved with agitation and pain. “Don’t you see it is because I feel I -was a sort of eavesdropper against my will, that I must tell you? Do you -think Madam Trevanion could be mistaken for a maid? I saw her--part from -him and come straight up to the house--and then, in another moment, she -came into the room, and I--I saw all that happened there.” - -“For an unwilling witness, Mr. Hamerton, you seem to have seen a great -deal,” said the doctor, with a gleam of fury in his eyes. - -“So I was--unwilling, most unwilling: you said yourself my nerves were -shaken. I’d rather than a thousand pounds I hadn’t seen her. But what am -I to do? If there was any trial or anything, would they call me as a -witness? That’s what I want to ask. In that case I’ll go off to America -or Japan or somewhere. They sha’n’t get a word against her out of me.” - -The moral shock which Dr. Beaton had received was great, and yet he -scarcely felt it to be a surprise. He sat for some moments in silence, -pondering how to reply. The end of his consideration was that he turned -round upon the inquirer with a laugh. “A trial,” he said, “about what? -Because Mr. Trevanion is nasty to his wife, and says things to her a -man should be ashamed to say? Women can’t try their husbands for being -brutes, more’s the pity! and she is used to it; or because (if it was -her at all) she spoke to somebody she met--a groom most likely--and gave -him his orders! No, no, my young friend, there will be no trial. But for -all that,” he added, somewhat fiercely, “I would advise you to hold your -tongue on the subject now that you have relieved your mind. The -Trevanions are kittle customers when their blood’s up. I would hold my -tongue for the future if I were you.” - -And then John Trevanion came in, cloudy and thoughtful, in his -smoking-coat, with a candle in his hand. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Reginald Trevanion of Highcourt had made at thirty a marriage which was -altogether suitable, and everything that the marriage of a young squire -of good family and considerable wealth ought to be, with a young lady -from a neighboring county with a pretty face and a pretty fortune, and -connections of the most unexceptionable kind. He was not himself an -amiable person even as a young man, but no one had ever asserted that -his temper or his selfishness or his uneasy ways had contributed to -bring about the catastrophe which soon overwhelmed the young household. -A few years passed with certain futile attempts at an heir which came to -nothing; and it was thought that the disappointment in respect to -Rosalind, who obstinately insisted upon turning out a girl, -notwithstanding her poor young mother’s remorseful distress and her -father’s refusal to believe that Providence could have played him so -cruel a trick, had something to do with the gradual fading away of young -Madam Trevanion. She died when Rosalind was but a few weeks old, and her -husband, whom all the neighborhood credited with a broken heart, -disappeared shortly after into that vague world known in a country -district as “Abroad;” where healing, it is to be supposed, or at least -forgetfulness, is to be found for every sorrow. Nothing was known of him -for a year or two. His brother, John Trevanion, was then a youth at -college, and, as Highcourt was shut up during its master’s absence, -disposed of his vacation among other branches of the family, and never -appeared; while Sophy, the only sister, who had married long before, was -also lost to the district. And thus all means of following the widower -in his wanderings were lost to his neighbors. When Mr. Trevanion -returned, three years after his first wife’s death, the first intimation -that he had married again was the appearance of the second Madam -Trevanion by his side in the carriage. The servants, indeed, had been -prepared by a letter, received just in time to enable them to open -hurriedly the shut-up rooms, and make ready for a lady; but that was -all. Of course, as everybody allowed, there was nothing surprising in -the fact. It is to be expected that a young widower, especially if -heartbroken, will marry again; the only curious thing was that no public -intimation of the event should have preceded the arrival of the pair. -There had been nothing in the papers, no intimation “At the British -Embassy--,” no hint that an English gentleman from one of the Midland -counties was about to bring home a charming wife. And, as a matter of -fact, nobody had been able to make out who Mrs. Trevanion was. Her -husband and she had met abroad. That was all that was ever known. For a -time the researches of the parties interested were very active, and all -sorts of leading questions were put to the new wife. But she was of -force superior to the country ladies, and baffled them all. And the calm -of ordinary existence closed over Highcourt, and the questions in course -of time were forgot. Madam Trevanion was not at all of the class of her -predecessor. She was not pretty like that gentle creature. Even those -who admired her least owned that she was striking, and many thought her -handsome, and some beautiful. She was tall; her hair and her eyes were -dark; she had the wonderful grace of bearing and movement which is -associated with the highest class, but no more belongs to it exclusively -than any other grace or gift. Between Madam Trevanion and the Duchess of -Newbury, who was herself a duke’s daughter, and one of the greatest -ladies in England, no chance spectator would have hesitated for a moment -as to which was the highest; and yet nobody knew who she was. It was -thought by some persons that she showed at first a certain hesitation -about common details of life which proved that she had not been born in -the purple. But, if so, all that was over before she had been a year at -Highcourt, and her manners were pronounced by the best judges to be -perfect. She was not shy of society as a novice would have been, nor was -her husband diffident in taking her about, as a proud man who has -married beneath him so generally is. They accepted all their invitations -like people who were perfectly assured of their own standing, and they -saw more company at Highcourt than that venerable mansion had seen -before for generations. And there was nothing to which society could -take exception in the new wife. She had little Rosalind brought home at -once, and was henceforth as devoted as any young mother could be to the -lovely little plaything of a three-years-old child. Then she did her -duty by the family as it becomes a wife to do. The first was a son, as -fine a boy as was ever born to a good estate, a Trevanion all over, -though he had his mother’s eyes--a boy that never ailed anything, as -robust as a young lion. Five or six others followed, of whom two died; -but these were ordinary incidents of life which establish a family in -the esteem and sympathy of its neighbors. The Trevanions had fulfilled -all that was needed to be entirely and fully received into the regard of -the county when they “buried,” as people say, their two children. Four -remained, the first-born, young Reginald, and his next sister, who were -at the beginning of this history fourteen and nine respectively, and -the two little ones of five and seven, who were also, to fulfil all -requirements, girl and boy. - -But of all these Rosalind had remained, if that may be said of a -step-child when a woman has a family of her own, the favorite, the -mother’s constant companion, everything that an eldest girl could be. -Neither the one nor the other ever betrayed a consciousness that they -were not mother and daughter. Mr. Trevanion himself, when in his -capricious, irritable way he permitted any fondness to appear, preferred -Reginald, who was his heir and personal representative. But Rosalind was -always by her mother’s side. But for Russell, the nurse, and one or two -other injudicious persons, she would probably never have found out that -Madam was not her mother; but the discovery had done good rather than -harm, by inspiring the natural affection with a passionate individual -attachment in which there were all those elements of choice and -independent election which are the charm of friendship. Mrs. Trevanion -was Rosalind’s example, her heroine, the perfect type of woman to her -eyes. And, indeed, she was a woman who impressed the general mind with -something of this character. There are many good women who do not do so, -who look commonplace enough in their life, and are only known in their -full excellence from some revelation afterwards of heroism unknown. But -Mrs. Trevanion carried her diploma in her eyes. The tenderness in them -was like sunshine to everybody about her who was in trouble. She never -was harsh, never intolerant, judged nobody--which in a woman so full of -feeling and with so high a standard of moral excellence was -extraordinary. This was what gave so great a charm to her manners. A -well-bred woman, even of an inferior type, will not allow a humble -member of society to feel himself or herself _de trop_; but there are -many ways of doing this, and the ostentatious way of showing exaggerated -attention to an unlucky stranger is as painful to a delicate mind as -neglect. But this was a danger which Mrs. Trevanion avoided. No one -could tell what the rank was of the guests in her drawing-room, whether -it was the duchess or the governess that was receiving her attentions. -They were all alike gentlewomen in this gracious house. The poor, who -are always the hardest judges of a new claimant of their favor, and who -in this case were much set on finding out that a woman who came from -“abroad” could be no lady, gave in more reluctantly, yet yielded too -like their betters--with the exception of Russell and the family in the -village to which she belonged. These were the only enemies, so far as -any one was aware, whom Madam possessed, and they were enemies of a -visionary kind, in no open hostility, receiving her favors like the -rest, and kept in check by the general state of public opinion. Still, -if there was anything to be found out about the lady of Highcourt, these -were the only hostile bystanders desirous of the opportunity of doing -her harm. - -But everything had fallen into perfect peace outside the house for -years. Now and then, at long intervals, it might indeed be remarked in -the course of a genealogical conversation such as many people love, that -it was not known who Mrs. Trevanion the second had been. “His first wife -was a Miss Warren, one of the Warrens of Warrenpoint. The present -one--well, I don’t know who she was; they married abroad.” But that was -all that now was ever said. It would be added probably that she was very -handsome, or very nice, or quite _comme il faut_, and so her defect of -parentage was condoned. Everything was harmonious, friendly, and -comfortable outside. The county could not resist her fine manners, her -looks, her quiet assumption of the place that belonged to her. But -within doors Mrs. Trevanion soon came to know that no very peaceful life -was to be expected. There were people who said that she had not the look -of a happy woman even when she first came home. In repose her face was -rather sad than otherwise at all times. Mr. Trevanion was still in the -hot fit of a bridegroom’s enthusiasm when he brought her home, but even -then he was the most troublesome, the most exacting, the most fidgety -of bridegrooms. Her patience with all his demands was boundless. She -would change her dress half a dozen times in an evening to please him. -She would start off with him on a sudden wild expedition at half an -hour’s notice, without a word or even look of annoyance. And when the -exuberance of love wore off, and the exactions continued, with no longer -caresses and sweet words, but blame and reproach and that continual -fault-finding which it is so hard to put up with amiably, Mrs. Trevanion -still endured everything, consented to everything, with a patience that -would not be shaken. It was now nearly ten years since the heart-disease -which had brought him nearly to death’s door first showed itself. He had -rheumatic fever, and then afterwards, as is so usual, this terrible -legacy which that complaint leaves behind it. From that moment, of -course, the patience which had been so sweetly exercised before became a -religious duty. It was known in the house that nothing must cross or -agitate or annoy Mr. Trevanion. But, indeed, it was not necessary that -anything should annoy him; he was his own chief annoyance, his own -agitator. He would flame up in sudden wrath at nothing at all, and turn -the house upside down, and send everybody but his wife flying, with -vituperations which scarcely the basest criminal could have deserved. -And his wife, who never abandoned him, became the chief object of these -passionate assaults. He accused her of every imaginable fault. He began -to talk of all she owed him, to declare that he married her when she had -nothing, that he had taken her out of the depths, that she owed -everything to him; he denounced her as ungrateful, base, trying to -injure his health under pretence of nursing him, that she might get the -power into her own hands. But she would find out her mistake, he said; -she would learn, when he was gone, the difference between having a -husband to protect her and nobody. To all these wild accusations and -comments the little circle round Mrs. Trevanion had become familiar and -indifferent. “Pegging away at Madam, as usual,” Mr. Dorrington, the -butler, said. “Lord, I’d let him peg! I’d leave him to himself and see -how he likes it,” replied the cook and housekeeper. No one had put the -slightest faith in the objurgations of the master. To Rosalind they were -the mere extravagances of that mad temper which she had been acquainted -with all her life. What her father said about his wife was about as -reasonable as his outburst of certainty that England was going to the -devil when the village boys broke down one of the young trees. She did -not judge papa for such a statement. She cried a little at his -vehemence, which did himself so much harm, and laughed a little -secretly, with a heavy sense of guilt, at his extravagance and -exaggerations. Poor papa! it was not his fault, it was because he was so -ill. He was too weak and ailing to be able to restrain himself as other -people did. But he did not mean it--how could he mean it? To say that -mamma wanted to break his neck if she did not put his pillow as he liked -it, to accuse her of a systematic attempt to starve him if his luncheon -was two minutes late or his soup not exactly to his taste--all that was -folly. And no doubt it was also folly, all that about raising her from -nothing and taking her without a penny. Rosalind, though very much -disturbed when she was present at one of these scenes, yet permitted -herself to laugh at it when it was over or she had got away. Poor papa! -and then when he had raged himself into a fit of those heart-spasms he -was so ill; how sad to see him suffering so terribly, gasping for -breath! Poor papa! to think that he did so much to bring it on himself -was only a pity the more. - -Thus things had gone on for years. When Dr. Beaton came to live in the -house there had been a temporary amendment. The presence of a stranger, -perhaps, had been a check upon the patient; and perhaps the novelty of a -continual and thoroughly instructed watcher--who knew how to follow the -symptoms of the malady, and foresaw an outburst before it came--did -something for him; and certainly there had been an amendment. But by -and by familiarity did away with these advantages. Dr. Beaton exhausted -all the resources of his science, and Mr. Trevanion ceased to be upon -his guard with a man whom he saw every day. Thus the house lived in a -forced submission to the feverish vagaries of its head; and he himself -sat and railed at everybody, pleased with nothing, claiming every -thought and every hour, but never contented with the service done him. -And greater and greater became the force of his grievances against his -wife and his sense of having done everything for her; how he had stood -by her when nobody else would look at her, how he had lifted her out of -some vague humiliation and abandonment, how she owed him everything, yet -treated him with brutal carelessness, and sought his death, were the -most favorite accusations on his lips. Mrs. Trevanion listened with a -countenance that rarely showed any traces of emotion. She had shrunk a -little at first from these painful accusations; but soon had come to -listen to them with absolute calm. She had borne them like a saint, like -a philosopher; and yet within the last month everybody saw there had -been a change. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -When Mrs. Trevanion came to Highcourt, she brought with her a maid who -had, during all the sixteen years of her married life, remained with her -without the slightest breach of fidelity or devotion. Jane was, the -household thought, somewhat like her mistress, a resemblance in all -likelihood founded upon the constant attendance of the one upon the -other, and the absorbing admiration, rising almost to a kind of worship, -with which Jane regarded her lady. After all, it was only in figure and -movement, not in face, that the resemblance existed. Jane was tall like -Mrs. Trevanion. She had caught something of that fine poise of the head, -something of the grace, which distinguished her mistress; but whereas -Mrs. Trevanion was beautiful, Jane was a plain woman, with somewhat -small eyes, a wide mouth, and features that were not worth considering. -She was of a constant paleness and she was marked with smallpox, neither -of which are embellishing. Still, if you happened to walk behind her -along one of the long passages, dressed in one of Madam’s old gowns, it -was quite possible that you might take her for Madam. And Jane was not a -common lady’s maid. She was entirely devoted to her mistress, not only -to her service, but to her person, living like her shadow--always in her -rooms, always with her, sharing in everything she did, even in the -nursing of Mr. Trevanion, who tolerated her presence as he tolerated -that of no one else. Jane sat, indeed, with the upper servants at their -luxurious and comfortable table, but she did not live with them. She had -nothing to do with their amusements, their constant commentary upon the -family. One or two butlers in succession--for before Mr. Trevanion gave -up all active interference in the house there had been a great many -changes in butlers--had done their best to make themselves agreeable to -Jane; but though she was always civil, she was cold, they said, as any -fish, and no progress was possible. Mrs. Jennings, the cook and -housekeeper, instinctively mistrusted the quiet woman. She was a deal -too much with her lady that astute person said. That was deserting her -own side: for do not the masters form one faction and the servants -another? The struggle of life may be conducted on more or less honorable -terms, but still a servant who does not belong to his own sphere is -unnatural, just as a master is who throws himself into the atmosphere of -the servants’ hall. The domestics felt sure that such a particular union -between the mistress and the maid could not exist in the ordinary course -of affairs, and that it must mean something which was not altogether -right. Jane never came, save for her meals, to the housekeeper’s room. -She was always up-stairs, in case, she said, that she should be wanted. -Why should she be wanted more than any other person in her position? -When now and then Mrs. Trevanion, wearied out with watching and -suffering, hurried to her room to rest, or to bathe her aching forehead, -or perhaps even to lighten the oppression of her heart by a few tears, -Jane was always there to soothe and tend and sympathize. The other -servants knew as well as Jane how much Madam had to put up with, but yet -they thought it very peculiar that a servant should be so much in her -mistress’s confidence. There was a mystery in it. It had been suspected -at first that Jane was a poor relation of Madam’s; and the others -expected jealously that this woman would be set over their heads, and -themselves humiliated under her sway. But this never took place, and the -household changed as most households change, and one set of maids and -men succeeded each other without any change in Jane. There remained a -tradition in the house that she was a sort of traitor in the camp, a -servant who was not of her own faction, but on the master’s side; but -this was all that survived of the original prejudice, and no one now -expected to be put under the domination of Jane, or regarded her with -the angry suspicion of the beginning, or supposed her to be Madam’s -relation. Jane, like Madam, had become an institution, and the present -generation of servants did not inquire too closely into matters of -history. - -This was true of all save one. But there was one person in the house who -was as much an institution as Jane, or even as Jane’s mistress, with -whom nobody interfered, and whom it was impossible to think of as -dethroned or put aside from her supreme place. Russell was in the -nursery what Madam herself was in Highcourt. In that limited but -influential domain she was the mistress, and feared nobody. She had been -the chosen of the first Mrs. Trevanion, and the nurse of Rosalind, with -whom she had gone to her Aunt Sophy’s during Mr. Trevanion’s widowhood, -and in charge of whom she had returned to Highcourt when he married. -Russell knew very well that the estates were entailed and that Rosalind -could not be the heir, but yet she resented the second marriage as if it -had been a wrong done at once to herself and her charge. If Jane was of -Madam’s faction, Russell was of a faction most strenuously and sternly -antagonistic to Madam. The prejudice which had risen up against the lady -who came from abroad, and whom nobody knew, and which had died away in -the course of time, lived and survived in this woman with all the force -of the first day. She had been on the watch all these years to find out -something to the discredit of her mistress, and no doubt the sentiment -had been strengthened by the existence of Jane, who was a sort of rival -power in her own sphere, and lessened her own importance by being as -considerable a person as herself. Russell had watched these two women -with a hostile vigilance which never slackened. She was in her own -department the most admirable and trustworthy of servants, and when she -received Mrs. Trevanion’s babies into her charge, carried nothing of her -prejudice against their mother into her treatment of them. If not as -dear to her as her first charge, Rosalind, they were still her children, -Trevanions, quite separated in her mind from the idea of their mother. -Perhaps the influence of Russell accounted for certain small griefs -which Madam had to bear as one of the consequences of her constant -attendance on her husband, the indifference to her of her little -children in their earlier years. But she said to herself with a -wonderful philosophy that she could expect no less; that absorbed as she -was in her husband’s sick-room all day, it was not to be expected that -the chance moments she could give to the nursery would secure the easily -diverted regard of the babies, to whom their nurse was the principal -figure in earth and heaven. And that nurse was so good, so careful, so -devoted, that it would have been selfishness indeed to have deprived the -children of her care because of a personal grievance of this kind. “Why -should Russell dislike me so much?” she would say sometimes to Rosalind, -who tried to deny the charge, and Jane, who shook her head and could not -explain. “Oh, dear mamma, it is only her temper. She does not mean it,” -Rosalind would say. And Madam, who had so much to suffer from temper in -another quarter, did not reject the explanation. “Temper explains a -great many things,” she said, “but even that does not quite explain. She -is so good to the children and hates their mother. I feel I have a foe -in the house so long as she is here.” Rosalind had a certain love for -her nurse, notwithstanding her disapproval of her, and she looked up -with some alarm. “Do you mean to send her away?” - -“Miss Rosalind,” said Jane, “my lady is right. It is a foe and nothing -less, a real enemy she has in that woman; if she would send Russell away -I’d be very glad for one.” - -“You need not fear, my love,” Madam said. “Hush, Jane, if she is my foe, -you are my partisan. I will never send Russell away, Rosalind; but when -the children are grown up, if I live to see it, or if she would be so -kind as to marry, and go off in a happy way, or even if when _you_ are -married she preferred to go with you-- I think I should draw my breath -more freely. It is painful to be under a hostile eye.” - -“The nurse’s eye, mamma, and you the mistress of the house!” - -“It does not matter, my dear. I have always had a sympathy for Haman, -who could not enjoy his grandeur for thinking of that Jew in the gate -that was always looking at him so cynically. It gets unendurable -sometimes. You must have a very high opinion of yourself to get over the -low view taken of you by that sceptic sitting in the gate. But now I -must go to your father,” Mrs. Trevanion said. She had come up-stairs -with a headache, and had sat down by the open window to get a little -air, though the air was intensely cold and damp. It was a refreshment, -after the closeness of the room in which the invalid sat with an -unvarying temperature and every draught shut out. Rosalind stood behind -her mother’s chair with her hands upon Mrs. Trevanion’s shoulders, and -the tired woman leaned back upon the girl’s young bosom so full of life. -“But you will catch cold at the window, my Rose! No, it does me good, I -want a little air, but it is too cold for you. And now I must go back to -your father,” she said, rising. She stooped and kissed the cheek of the -girl she loved, and went away with a smile to her martyrdom. These -moments of withdrawal from her heavy duties were the consolations of her -life. - -“Miss Rosalind,” said Jane, “that you should love your old nurse I don’t -say a word against it--but if ever there is a time when a blow can be -struck at my lady that woman will do it. She will never let the little -ones be here when their mamma can see them. They’re having their sleep, -or they’re out walking, or they’re at their lessons; and Miss Sophy the -same. And if ever she can do us an ill turn--” - -“How could she do you an ill turn? That is, Jane, I beg your pardon, she -might, perhaps, be nasty to _you_--but, mamma! What blow, as you call -it, can be struck at mamma?” - -“Oh, how can I tell?” said Jane; “I never was clever; there’s things -happening every day that no one can foresee; and when a woman is always -watching to spy out any crevice, you never can tell, Miss Rosalind, in -this world of trouble, what may happen unforeseen.” - -This speech made no great impression on Rosalind’s mind at the time, but -it recurred to her after, and gave her more trouble than any wickedness -of Russell’s had power to do. In the meantime, leaving Jane, she went to -the nursery, and with the preoccupation of youth carried with her the -same subject, heedless and unthinking what conclusions Russell, whose -faculties were always alert on this question, might draw. - -“Russell,” she said, after a moment, “why are you always so disagreeable -to mamma?” - -“Miss Rosalind, I do hate to hear you call her mamma. Why don’t you say -‘my stepmother,’ as any other young lady would in your place?” - -“Because she is not my stepmother,” said the girl, with a slight stamp -on the floor. “Just look at little Johnny, taking in all you say with -his big eyes. She is all the mother I have ever known, and I love her -better than any one in the world.” - -“And just for that I can’t bear it,” cried the woman. “What would your -own dear mamma say?” - -“If she were as jealous and ill-tempered as you I should not mind what -she said,” said the girl. “Don’t think, if you continue like this, you -will ever have any sympathy from me.” - -“Oh, Miss Rosalind, what you are saying is as bad as swearing; worse, -it’s blasphemy; and the time will come when you’ll remember and be -sorry. No, though you think I’m a brute, I sha’n’t say anything before -the children. But the time will come--” - -“What a pity you are not on the stage, Russell! You would make a fine -Meg Merrilies, or something of that kind; the old woman that is always -cursing somebody and prophesying trouble. That is just what you are -suited for. I will come and see you your first night.” - -“Me! on the stage!” cried Russell, with a sense of outraged dignity -which words cannot express. Such an insult had never been offered to her -before. Rosalind went out of the room quickly, angry but laughing when -she had given this blow. She wanted to administer a stinging -chastisement, and she had done so. Her own cleverness in discovering -what would hit hardest pleased her. She began to sing, out of wrathful -indignation and pleasure, as she went down-stairs. - -“Me! on the stage!” Russell repeated to herself. A respectable upper -servant in a great house could not have had a more degrading suggestion -made to her. She could have cried as she sat there gnashing her teeth. -And this too was all on account of Madam, the strange woman who had -taken her first mistress’s place even in the heart of her own child. -Perhaps if Rosalind had treated her stepmother as a stepmother ought to -be treated, Russell would have been less antagonistic; but Mrs. -Trevanion altogether was obnoxious to her. She had come from abroad; she -had brought her own maid with her, who was entirely unsociable, and -never told anything; who was a stranger, a foreigner perhaps, for -anything that was known of her, and yet was Russell’s equal, or more, by -right of Madam’s favor, though Russell had been in the house for years. -What subtle antipathy there might be besides these tangible reasons for -hating them, Russell did not know. She only knew that from the first -moment she had set eyes upon her master’s new wife she had detested her. -There was something about her that was not like other women. There must -be a secret. When had it ever been known that a maid gave up -everything--the chat, the game at cards, the summer stroll in the park, -even the elegant civilities of a handsome butler--for the love of her -mistress? It was unnatural; no one had ever heard of such a thing. What -could it be but a secret between these women which held them together, -which it was their interest to conceal from the world? But the time -would come, Russell said to herself. If she watched night and day she -should find it out; if she waited for years and years the time and -opportunity would come at last. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -This conversation, or series of conversations, took place shortly before -the time at which this history begins, and it was very soon after that -the strange course of circumstances commenced which was of so much -importance in the future life of the Trevanions of Highcourt. When the -precise moment was at which the attention of Rosalind was roused and her -curiosity excited, she herself could not have told. It was not until -Madam Trevanion had fallen for some time into the singular habit of -disappearing after dinner, nobody knew where. It had been very usual -with her to run up to the nursery when she left the dining-room, to see -if the children were asleep. Mr. Trevanion, when he was at all well, -liked to sit, if not over his wine, for he was abstemious by force of -necessity, yet at the table, talking with whomsoever might be his -guest. Though his life was so little adapted to the habits of -hospitality, he liked to have some one with whom he could sit and talk -after dinner, and who would make up his rubber when he went into the -drawing-room. He had been tolerably well, for him, during the autumn, -and there had been a succession of three-days’ visitors, all men, -succeeding each other, and all chosen on purpose to serve Mr. -Trevanion’s after-dinner talk and his evening rubber. And it was a -moment in which the women of the household felt themselves free. As for -Rosalind, she would establish herself between the lamp and the fire and -read a novel, which was one of her favorite pastimes; while Mrs. -Trevanion, relieved from the constant strain of attendance, would run -up-stairs, “to look at the children,” as she said. Perhaps she did not -always look long at the children, but this served as the pretext for a -moment of much-needed rest, Rosalind had vaguely perceived a sort of -excitement about her for some time--a furtive look, an anxiety to get -away from the table as early as possible. While she sat there she would -change color, as was not at all her habit, for ordinarily she was pale. -Now flushes and pallor contended with each other. When she spoke there -was a little catch as of haste and breathlessness in her voice, and when -she made the usual little signal to Rosalind her hand would tremble, and -the smile was very uncertain on her lip. Nor did she stop to say -anything, but hurried up-stairs like one who has not a moment to lose. -And it happened on several occasions that Mr. Trevanion and the guest -and the doctor were in the drawing-room, however long they sat, before -Madam had returned. For some time Rosalind took no notice of this. She -did not indeed remark it. It had never occurred to her to watch or to -inspect her stepmother’s conduct. Hitherto she had been convinced that -it was right always. She read her novel in her fireside corner, and -never discovered that there was any break in the usual routine. When the -first painful light burst upon her she could not tell. It was first a -word from Russell, then the sight of Jane gazing out very anxiously -upon the night, when it rained, from a large staircase window, and then -the aspect of affairs altogether. Mr. Trevanion began to remark very -querulously on his wife’s absence. Where was she? What did she mean by -always being out of the way just when he wanted her? and much more of -the same kind. And when Madam came in she looked flushed and hurried, -and brought with her a whole atmosphere of fresh out-door air from the -damp and somewhat chilly night. It was the fragrance and sensation of -this fresh air which roused Rosalind the most. It startled her with a -sense of something that was new, something that she did not understand. -The thought occurred to her next morning when she first opened her eyes, -the first thing that came into her mind. That sudden gush of fresh air, -how did it come? It was not from the nursery that one could bring an -atmosphere like that. - -And thus other days and other evenings passed. There was something new -altogether in Mrs. Trevanion’s face, a sort of awakening, but not to -happiness. When they drove out she was very silent, and her eyes were -watchful as though looking for something. They went far before the -carriage, before the rapid horses, with a watchful look. For whom could -she be looking? Rosalind ventured one day to put the question. “For -whom--could I be looking? I am looking for no one,” Mrs. Trevanion said, -with a sudden rush of color to her face; and whereas she had been -leaning forward in the carriage, she suddenly leaned back and took no -more notice, scarcely speaking again till they returned home. Such -caprice was not like Madam. She did everything as usual, fulfilled all -her duties, paid her calls, and was quite as lively and interested as -usual in the neighbors whom she visited, entering into their talk almost -more than was her habit. But when she returned to the society of her own -family she was not as usual. Sometimes there was a pathetic tone in her -voice, and she would excuse herself in a way which brought the tears to -Rosalind’s eyes. - -“My dear,” she would say, “I fear I am bad company at present. I have a -great deal to think of.” - -“You are always the best of company,” Rosalind would say in the -enthusiasm of her affection, and Mrs. Trevanion looked at her with a -tender gratitude which broke the girl’s heart. - -“When I want people to hear the best that can be said of me, I will send -them to you, Rosalind,” she said. “Oh, what a blessing of God that you -should be the one to think most well of me! God send it may always be -so!” she added, with a voice full of feeling so deep and anxious that -the girl did not know what to think. - -“How can you speak so, mamma? Think well! Why, you are my mother; there -is nobody but you,” she said. - -“Do you know, Rosalind,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that the children who are -my very own will not take me for granted like you.” - -“And am not I your very own? Whom have I but you?” Rosalind said. - -Mrs. Trevanion turned and kissed her, though it was in the public road. -Rosalind felt that her cheek was wet. What was the meaning of it? They -had always been mother and daughter in the fullest sense of the word, -unconsciously, without any remark, the one claiming nothing, the other -not saying a word of her devotion. It was already a painful novelty that -it should be mentioned between them how much they loved each other, for -natural love like this has no need of words. - -And then sometimes Madam would be severe. - -“Mamma,” said little Sophy on one of these drives, “there is somebody -new living in the village--a gentleman--well, perhaps not a gentleman. -Russell says nobody knows who he is. And he gets up in the middle of the -day, and goes out at night.” - -“I should not think it could be any concern of yours who was living in -the village,” Mrs. Trevanion said, far more hastily and hotly than her -wont. - -“Oh, but mamma, it is so seldom any one comes; and he lives at the Red -Lion; and it is too late for sketching, so he can’t be an artist; and, -mamma, Russell says--” - -“I will not have Russell fill your head with the gossip of the village,” -said Madam, with a flush of anger. “You are too much disposed to talk -about your neighbors. Tell Russell I desire you to have nothing to do -with the village news--” - -“Oh, but mamma, it isn’t village news, it’s a stranger. Everybody wants -to find out about a stranger; and he is so--” - -Mrs. Trevanion gave a slight stamp of impatience and anger. “You have -still less to do with strangers. Let me hear no more about this,” she -said. She did not recover from the thrill of irritation during the whole -course of the drive. Sophy, who was unused to such vehemence, retired -into sulkiness and tears, while Rosalind, wounded a little to see that -her mother was fallible, looked on, surprised. She who was never put -out! And then again Madam Trevanion came down from her eminence and made -a sort of excuse which troubled her young adorer almost more than the -fact. “I am afraid I am growing irritable. I have so much to think of,” -she said. - -What was it she had to think of now above other times? Mr. Trevanion, -for him, was well. They had people staying in the house who amused him; -and John Trevanion was coming, Uncle John, whom everybody liked. And the -children were all well; and nothing wrong, so far as any one was aware, -in the business matters which Mrs. Trevanion bore the weight of to serve -her husband; the farms were all let, there was nothing out of gear -anywhere. What had she to think of? Rosalind was greatly, painfully -puzzled by this repeated statement. And by degrees her perplexity grew. -It got into the air, and seemed to infect all the members of the -household. The servants acquired a watchful air. The footman who came in -to take away the teacups looked terribly conscious that Madam was late. -There was a general watchfulness about. You could not cross the hall, or -go up-stairs, or go through a corridor from one part of the house to -another, without meeting a servant who would murmur an apology, as if -his or her appearance was an accident, but who were all far too wide -awake and on the alert to have come there accidentally. Anxiety of this -kind, or even curiosity, is cumulative, and communicates itself -imperceptibly with greater and greater force as it goes on. And in the -midst of the general drama a curious side-scene was going on always -between the two great antagonists in the household--Russell and Jane. -They kept up a watch, each on her side. The one could not open her door -or appear upon the upper stairs without a corresponding click of the -door of the other; a stealthy inspection behind a pillar, or out of a -corner, to see what was going on; and both of them had expeditions of -their own which would not bear explanation, both in the house and -without. In this point Jane had a great advantage over her adversary. -She could go out almost when she pleased, while Russell was restrained -by the children, whom she could not leave. But Russell had other -privileges that made up for this. She had nursery-maids under her -orders; she had spies about in all sorts of places; her relations lived -in the village. Every piece of news, every guess and suspicion, was -brought to her. And she had a great faculty for joining her bits of -information together. By and by Russell began to wear a triumphant look, -and Jane a jaded and worn one; they betrayed in their faces the fact -that whatever their secret struggle was, one was getting the better of -the other. Jane gave Rosalind pathetic looks, as if asking whether she -might confide in her, while Russell uttered hints and innuendoes, -ending, indeed, as has been seen, in intimations more positive. When she -spoke so to Rosalind it may be supposed that she was not silent to the -rest of the house; or that she failed, with the boldness of her kind, to -set forth and explain the motives of her mistress. For some time before -the incident of the bramble, every one in the house had come to be fully -aware that Madam went out every evening, however cold, wet, and -miserable it might be. John Trevanion acquired the knowledge he could -not tell how; he thought it was from that atmosphere of fresh air which -unawares she brought with her on those occasions when she was late, when -the gentlemen had reached the drawing-room before she came in. This was -not always the case. Sometimes they found her there, seated in her usual -place, calm enough, save for a searching disquiet in her eyes, which -seemed to meet them as they came in, asking what they divined or knew. -They all knew--that is to say, all but Mr. Trevanion himself, whose -vituperations required no particular occasion, and ran on much the same -whatever happened, and the temporary three-days’ guest, who at the -special moment referred to was young Hamerton. Sometimes incidents would -occur which had no evident bearing upon this curious secret which -everybody knew, but yet nevertheless disturbed the brooding air with a -possibility of explosion. On one occasion little Sophy was the occasion -of a thrill in this electrical atmosphere which nobody quite understood. -The child had come in to dessert, and was standing by her father’s side, -consuming all the sweetmeats she could get. - -“Oh, mamma!” Sophy said suddenly and loudly, addressing her mother -across the table; “you know that gentleman at the Red Lion I told you -about?” - -“What gentleman at the Red Lion?” said her father, who had a keen ear -for gossip. - -“Do not encourage her, Reginald,” said Madam from the other end of the -table; “I cannot let her bring the village stories here.” - -“Let us hear about the gentleman from the Red Lion,” he said; “perhaps -it is something amusing. I never am allowed to hear what is going on. -Come, Sophy, what’s about him? We all want to know.” - -“Oh, but mamma will be so cross if I tell you! She will not let me say a -word. When I told her before she stamped her foot--” - -“Ha, Madam!” said the husband, “we’ve caught you. I thought you were -one that never lost your temper. But Sophy knows better. Come, what of -this gentleman--” - -“I think, Rosalind, we had better go,” said Mrs. Trevanion, rising. “I -do not wish the child to bring tales out of the village. Sophy!” The -mother looked at her with eyes of command. But the little girl felt -herself the heroine of the occasion, and perfectly secure, held in her -father’s arm. - -“Oh, it is only that nobody knows him!” she said in her shrill little -voice; “and he gets up in the middle of the day, and never goes out till -night. Russell knows all about him. Russell says he is here for no good. -He is like a man in a story-book, with such big eyes. Oh! Russell says -she would know him anywhere, and I think so should I--” - -Mrs. Trevanion stood listening till all was said. Her face was perfectly -without color, her eyes blazing upon the malicious child with a strange -passion. What she was doing was the most foolish thing a woman could do. -Her anger succeeded by so strange a calm, the intense seriousness with -which she regarded what after all was nothing more than a childish -disobedience, gave the most exaggerated importance to the incident. Why -should she take it so seriously, everybody asked? What was it to her? -And who could hinder the people who were looking on, and knew that Madam -was herself involved in something unexplainable, something entirely new -to all her habits, from receiving this new actor into their minds as -somehow connected with it, somehow appropriated by her? When the child -stopped, her mother interfered again with the same exaggeration of -feeling, her very voice thrilling the tranquillity of the room as she -called Sophy to follow her. “Don’t beat her,” Mr. Trevanion called out, -with a chuckling laugh. “Sophy, if they whip you, come back to me. -Nobody shall whip you for answering your father. Come and tell me all -you hear about the gentleman, and never mind what Madam may say.” - -Sophy was frightened, however, there could be no doubt, as she followed -her mother. She began to cry as she crept through the hall. Mrs. -Trevanion held her head high; there was a red spot on each of her -cheeks. She paused for a moment and looked at Rosalind, as if she would -have spoken; then hurried away, taking no notice of the half-alarmed, -half-remorseful child, who stood and gazed after her, at once relieved -and disappointed. “Am I to get off?” Sophy whispered, pulling at -Rosalind’s dress. And then she burst into a sudden wail of crying: “Oh, -Rosalind, mamma has never said good-night!” - -“You do not deserve it, after having disobeyed her,” said Rosalind. And -with her young mind all confused and miserable, she went to the -drawing-room to her favorite seat between the fire and the lamp; but -though her novel was very interesting, she did not read it that night. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Next day, as they drove out in the usual afternoon hour while Mr. -Trevanion took his nap after luncheon, a little incident happened which -was nothing, yet gave Rosalind, who was alone with her stepmother in the -carriage, a curious sensation. A little way out of the village, on the -side of the road, she suddenly perceived a man standing, apparently -waiting till they should pass. Madam had been very silent ever since -they left home, so much more silent than it was her habit to be that -Rosalind feared she had done something to incur Mrs. Trevanion’s -displeasure. Instead of the animated conversations they used to have, -and the close consultations that were habitual between them, they sat by -each other silent, scarcely exchanging a word in a mile. Rosalind was -not herself a great talker, but when she was with this other and better -self, she flowed forth in lively observation and remark, which was not -talk, but the involuntary natural utterance which came as easily as her -breath. This day, however, she had very little to say, and Madam -nothing. They leaned back, each in her corner, with a blank between -them, which Rosalind now and then tried to break with a wistful question -as to whether mamma was cold, whether she did not find the air too keen, -if she would like the carriage closed, etc., receiving a smile and a -brief reply, but no more. They had fallen into silence almost absolute -as they passed through the village, and it was when they emerged once -more into the still country road that the incident which has been -referred to took place. Some time before they came up to him, Rosalind -remarked the man standing under one of the hedgerow trees, close against -it, looking towards them, as if waiting for the carriage to pass. Though -she was not eager for the tales of the village like Sophy, Rosalind had -a country girl’s easily roused curiosity in respect to a stranger. She -knew at once by the outline of him, before she could make out even what -class he belonged to, that this was some one she had never seen before. -As the carriage approached rapidly she grew more and more certain. He -was a young man, a gentleman--at least his dress and attitude were like -those of a gentleman; he was slim and straight, not like the country -louts. As he turned his head towards the carriage, Rosalind thought she -had never seen a more remarkable face. He was very pale; his features -were large and fine, and his pallor and thinness were made more -conspicuous by a pair of very large, dreamy, uncertain dark eyes. These -eyes were looking so intently towards the carriage that Rosalind had -almost made up her mind that there was to be some demand upon their -sympathy, some petition or appeal. She could not help being stirred with -all the impetuosity of her nature, frank and warm-hearted and generous, -towards this poor gentleman. He looked as if he had been ill, as if he -meant to throw himself upon their bounty, as if-- The horses sped on with -easy speed as she sat up in the carriage and prepared herself for -whatever might happen. It is needless to say that nothing happened as -far as the bystander was concerned. He looked intently at them, but did -no more. Rosalind was so absorbed in a newly awakened interest that she -thought of nothing else, till suddenly, turning round to her companion, -she met--not her stepmother’s sympathetic countenance, but the blackness -of a veil in which Mrs. Trevanion had suddenly enveloped herself. “That -must surely be the gentleman Sophy was talking of,” she said. Madam gave -a slight shiver in her furs. “It is very cold,” she said; “it has grown -much colder since we came out.” - -“Shall I tell Robert to close the carriage, mother?” - -“Oh, no, it is unnecessary. You can tell him to go home by the Wildwood -gate. I should not have come out if I had known it was so cold.” - -“I hope you have not taken cold, mamma. To me the air seems quite soft. -I suppose,” Rosalind said, in that occasional obtuseness which belongs -to innocence, “you did not notice, as you put down your veil just then, -that gentleman on the road? I think he must be the gentleman Sophy -talked about--very pale, with large eyes. I think he must have been ill. -I feel quite interested in him too.” - -“No, I did not observe--” - -“I wish you had noticed him, mamma. I should know him again anywhere; it -is quite a remarkable face. What can he want in the village? I think you -should make the doctor call, or send papa’s card. If he should be ill--” - -“Rosalind, you know how much I dislike village gossip. A stranger in the -inn can be nothing to us. There is Dr. Smith if he wants anything,” said -Madam, hurriedly, almost under her breath. And she shivered again, and -drew her furred mantle more closely round her. Though it was November, -the air was soft and scarcely cold at all, Rosalind thought in her young -hardiness; but then Mrs. Trevanion, shut up so much in an overheated -room, naturally was more sensitive to cold. - -This was in the afternoon; and on the same evening there occurred the -incident of the bramble, and all the misery that followed, concluding -in Mr. Trevanion’s attack, and the sudden gloom and terror thrown upon -the house. Rosalind had no recollection of so trifling a matter in the -excitement and trouble that followed. She saw her stepmother again only -in the gray of the winter morning, when waking suddenly, with that sense -of some one watching her which penetrates the profoundest sleep, she -found Mrs. Trevanion seated by her bedside, extremely pale, with dark -lines under her eyes, and the air of exhaustion which is given by a -sleepless night. - -“I came to tell you, dear, that your father, at last, is getting a -little sleep,” she said. - -“Oh, mamma-- But you have had no sleep--you have been up all night!” - -“That does not much matter. I came to say also, Rosalind, that I fear my -being so late last night and his impatience had a great deal to do with -bringing on the attack. It might be almost considered my fault.” - -“Oh, mamma! we all know,” cried Rosalind, inexpressibly touched by the -air with which she spoke, “how much you have had to bear.” - -“No more than what was my duty. A woman when she marries accepts all the -results. She may not know what there will be to bear, but whatever it is -it is all involved in the engagement. She has no right to shrink--” - -There was a gravity, almost solemnity, in Madam’s voice and look which -awed the girl. She seemed to be making a sort of formal and serious -explanation. Rosalind had seen her give way under her husband’s cruelty -and exactions. She had seen her throw herself upon the bed and weep, -though there had never been a complaint in words to blame the father to -the child. This was one point in which, and in which alone, the fact -that Rosalind was his daughter, and not hers, had been apparent. Now -there was no accusation, but something like a statement, formal and -solemn, which was explained by the exhaustion and calm as of despair -that was in her face. - -“That has been my feeling all through,” she said. “I wish you to -understand it, Rosalind. If Reginald were at home--well, he is a boy, -and I could not explain to him as I can to you. I want you to understand -me; I have had more to bear, a great deal more, than I expected. But I -have always said to myself it was in the day’s work. You may perhaps be -tempted to think, looking back, that I have had, even though he has been -so dependent upon me, an irritating influence. Sometimes I have myself -thought so, and that some one else-- But if you will put one thing to -another,” she added, going on in the passionless, melancholy argument, -“you will perceive that the advantage to him of my knowledge of all his -ways counter-balances any harm that might arise from that; and then -there is always the doubt whether any one else would not have been -equally irritating after a time.” - -“Mother,” cried Rosalind, who had raised herself in her bed and was -gazing anxiously into the pale and worn-out face which was turned half -away from her, not looking at her; “mother! why do you say all this to -me? Do I want you to explain yourself, I who know that you have been the -best, the kindest--” - -Mrs. Trevanion did not look at her, but put up her hand to stop this -interruption. - -“I am saying this because I think your father is very ill, Rosalind.” - -“Worse, mamma?” - -“I have myself thought that he was growing much weaker. We flattered -ourselves, you know, that to be so long without an attack was a great -gain; but I have felt he was growing weaker, and I see now that Dr. -Beaton agrees with me. And to have been the means of bringing on this -seizure when he was so little able to bear it--” - -“Oh, mamma! how can you suppose that any one would ever blame--” - -“I am my own judge, Rosalind. No, you would not blame me, not now at -least, when you are entirely under my influence. I think, however, that -had it not been this it would have been something else. Any trifling -matter would have been enough. Nothing that we could have done would -have staved it off much longer. That is my conviction. I have worked out -the question, oh, a hundred times within myself. Would it be better to -go away, and acknowledge that I could not-- I was doing as much harm as -good--” - -Rosalind here seized upon Mrs. Trevanion’s arm, clasping it with her -hands, with a cry of “Go away! leave us, mother!” in absolute -astonishment and dismay. - -“And so withdraw the irritation. But then with the irritation I should -have deprived him of a great deal of help. And there was always the -certainty that no other could do so much, and that any other would soon -become an irritation too. I have argued the whole thing out again and -again. And I think I am right, Rosalind. No one else could have been at -his disposal night and day like his wife. And if no one but his wife -could have annoyed him so much, the one must be taken with the other.” - -“You frighten me, mamma; is it so very serious? And you have done -nothing--nothing?” - -Here Mrs. Trevanion for the first time turned and looked into Rosalind’s -face. - -“Yes,” she said. There was a faint smile upon her lips, so faint that it -deepened rather than lightened the gravity of her look. She shook her -head and looked tenderly at Rosalind with this smile. “Ah, my dear,” she -said, “you would willingly make the best of it; but I have done -something. Not, indeed, what he thinks, what perhaps other people think, -but something I ought not to have done.” A deep sigh followed, a long -breath drawn from the inmost recesses of her breast to relieve some pain -or pressure there. “Something,” she continued, “that I cannot help, -that, alas! I don’t want to do; although I think it is my duty, too.” - -And then she was silent, sitting absorbed in her own thoughts by -Rosalind’s bed. The chilly winter morning had come in fully as she -talked till now the room was full of cold daylight, ungenial, unkindly, -with no pleasure in it. Rosalind in her eager youth, impatient of -trouble, and feeling that something must be done or said to make an end -of all misery, that it was not possible there could be no remedy, held -her mother’s hand between hers, and cried and kissed it and asked a -hundred questions. But Madam sat scarcely moving, her mind absorbed in a -labyrinth from which she saw no way of escape. There seemed no remedy -either for the ills that were apparent or those which nobody knew. - -“You ought at least to be resting,” the girl said at last; “you ought to -get a little sleep. I will get up and go to his room and bring you word -if he stirs.” - -“He will not stir for some time. No, I am not going to bed. After I have -bathed my face Jane will get me a cup of tea, and I shall go down again. -No, I could not sleep. I am better within call, so that if he wants -me-- But I could not resist the temptation of coming in to speak to you, -Rosalind. I don’t know why--just an impulse. We ought not to do things -by impulse, you know, but alas! some of us always do. You will remember, -however, if necessary. Somehow,” she said, with a pathetic smile, her -lips quivering as she turned to the girl’s eager embrace, “you seem more -my own child, Rosalind, more my champion, my defender, than those who -are more mine.” - -“Nothing can be more yours, mother, all the more that we chose each -other. We were not merely compelled to be mother and child.” - -“Perhaps there is something in that,” said Mrs. Trevanion. - -“And the others are so young; only I of all your children am old enough -to understand you,” cried Rosalind, throwing herself into her -stepmother’s arms. They held each other for a moment closely in that -embrace which is above words, which is the supreme expression of human -emotion and sympathy, resorted to when all words fail, and yet which -explains nothing, which leaves the one as far as ever from understanding -the other, from divining what is behind the veil of individuality which -separates husband from wife and mother from child. Then Mrs. Trevanion -rose and put Rosalind softly back upon her pillow and covered her up -with maternal care as if she had been a child. “I must not have you -catch cold,” she said, with a smile which was her usual motherly smile -with no deeper meaning in it. “Now go to sleep, my love, for another -hour.” - -In her own room Madam exchanged a few words with Jane, who had also been -up all night, and who was waiting for her with the tea which is a tired -watcher’s solace. “You must do all for me to-day, Jane,” she said; “I -cannot leave Mr. Trevanion; I will not, which is more. I have been, -alas! partly the means of bringing on this attack.” - -“Oh, Madam, how many attacks have there been before without any cause!” - -“That is a little consolation to me; still, it is my fault. Tell him how -unsafe it is to be here, how curious the village people are, and that I -implore him, for my sake, if he thinks anything of that, and for God’s -sake, to go away. What can we do more? Tell him what we have both told -him a hundred times, Jane!” - -“I will do what I can, Madam; but he pays no attention to me, as you -know.” - -“Nor to any one,” said Madam, with a sigh. “I have thought sometimes of -telling Dr. Beaton everything; he is a kind man, he would know how to -forgive. But, alas! how could I tell if it would do good or harm?” - -“Harm! only harm! He would never endure it,” the other said. - -Again Mrs. Trevanion sighed; how deep, deep down was the oppression -which those long breaths attempted to relieve. “Oh,” she said, “how -happy they are that never stray beyond the limits of nature! Would not -poverty, hard work, any privation, have been better for all of us?” - -“Sixteen years ago, Madam,” Jane said. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Mr. Trevanion’s attack wore off by degrees, and by and by he resumed his -old habits, appearing once more at dinner, talking as of old after that -meal, coming into the drawing-room for his rubber afterwards. Everything -returned into the usual routine. But there were a few divergences from -the former habits of the house. The invalid was never visible except in -the evening, and there was a gradual increase of precaution, a gradual -limitation of what he was permitted or attempted to do, which denoted -advancing weakness. John Trevanion remained, which was another sign. He -had made all his arrangements to go, and then after a conversation with -the doctor departed from them suddenly, and announced that if it did not -interfere with any of Madam’s arrangements he would stay till Christmas, -none of his engagements being pressing. Other guests came rarely, and -only when the invalid burst forth into a plaint that he never saw any -one, that the sight of the same faces day by day was enough to kill a -man. “And every one longer than the other,” he cried. “There is John -like a death’s head, and the doctor like a grinning waxwork, and -Madam--why, she is the worst of all. Since I interfered with her little -amusements, going out in the dark like one of her own housemaids, by -Jove, Madam has been like a whipped child. She that had always an -argument ready, she has taken up the submissive _rôle_ at last. It’s a -new development. Eh? don’t you think so? Did you ever see Madam in the -_rôle_ of Griselda before? I never did, I can tell you. It is a change! -It won’t last long, you think, John? Well, let us get the good of it -while we can. It is something quite novel to me.” - -“I said nothing on the subject,” said John, “and indeed I think it would -be better taste to avoid personal observations.” - -“Especially in the presence of the person, eh? That’s not my way. I say -the worst I have to say to your face, so you need not fear what is said -behind your back-- Madam knows it. She is so honest; she likes honesty. A -woman that has set herself to thwart and cross her husband for how -many--sixteen years, she can’t be in much doubt as to his opinion of -her, eh? What! will nothing make you speak?” - -“It is time for this tonic, Reginald. Dr. Beaton is very anxious that -you should not neglect it.” - -“Is that all you have got to say? That is brilliant, certainly; quinine, -when I want a little amusement. Bitter things are better than sweet, I -suppose you think. In that case I should be a robust fox-hunter instead -of an invalid, as I am--for I have had little else all my life.” - -“I think you have done pretty well in your life, Reginald. What you have -wanted you have got. That does not happen to all of us. Except health, -which is a great deduction, of course.” - -“What I have wanted! I wanted an heir and a family like other men, and I -got a poor little wife who died at nineteen, and a useless slip of a -girl. Then my second venture--perhaps you think my second venture was -very successful--a fine robust wife, and a mischievous brat like Rex, -always in scrapes at school, besides that little spiteful minx Sophy, -who would spite her own mother if she could, and the two imps in the -nursery. What good are they to me? The boy will succeed me, of course, -and keep you out. I had quite as lief you had it, John. You are my own -brother, after all, and that boy is more his mother’s than mine. He has -those eyes of hers. Lord! what a fool a young fellow is! To imagine I -should have given up so much when I ought to have known better, and -taken so many burdens on my shoulders for the sake of a pair of fine -eyes. They are fine eyes still, but I know the meaning of them now.” - -“This is simply brutal, Reginald,” said his brother, in high -indignation. He got up to go away, but a sign from Mrs. Trevanion, -behind her husband’s back, made him pause. - -“Brutal, is it? which means true. Give me some of that eau-de-Cologne. -Can’t you be quick about it? You take half an hour to cross the room. -I’ve always meant to tell you about that second marriage of mine. I was -a fool, and she was-- Shall I tell him all about it, Madam? when we met, -and how you led me on. By Jove! I have a great mind to publish the whole -business, and let everybody know who you are and what you are--or, -rather, were when I married you.” - -“I wish you would do so, Reginald. The mystery has never been my doing. -It would be for my happiness if you would tell John.” - -The sick man looked round upon her with a chuckling malice. “She would -like to expose herself in order to punish me,” he said. “But I sha’n’t -do it; you may dismiss that from your mind. I don’t wish the country to -know that my wife was--” Then he ended with a laugh which was so -insulting that John Trevanion involuntarily clinched his fist and made a -step forward; then recollected himself, and fell back with a suppressed -exclamation. - -“It is quite natural you should take her part, Jack. She’s a fine woman -still of her years, though a good bit older than you would think. How -old were you, Madam, when I married you? Oh, old enough for a great deal -to have happened--eight-and-twenty or thereabouts--just on the edge of -being _passée_ then, the more fool I! Jove! what a fool I was, thrusting -my head into the bag. I don’t excuse myself. I posed myself in those -days as a fellow that had seen life, and wasn’t to be taken in. But you -were too many for me. Never trust to a woman, John, especially a woman -that has a history and that sort of thing. You are never up to their -tricks. However knowing you may be, take my word for it, they know a -thing or two more than you.” - -“If you mean to do nothing but insult your wife, Reginald--” - -“John, for Heaven’s sake! What does it matter? You will think no worse -of me for what he says, and no better. Let him talk!” cried Madam, under -her breath. - -“What is she saying to you--that I am getting weak in my mind and don’t -know what I am saying? Ah! that’s clever. I have always expected -something of the sort. Look here, Madam! sit down at once and write to -Charley Blake, do you hear? Charley--not the old fellow. Ask him to come -here from Saturday to Monday, I want to have a talk with him. You are -not fond of Charley Blake. And tell him to bring all his tools with him. -He will know”--with a significant laugh--“what I mean.” - -She went to the writing-table without a word, and wrote the note. “Will -you look at it, Reginald, to see if it is what you wish.” - -The patient snarled at her with his laugh. “I can trust you,” he said, -“and you shall see when Blake comes.” - -“What do you want with Blake, Reginald? Why should you trouble yourself -with business in your present state of health? You must have done all -that is necessary long ago, I wish you would keep quiet and give -yourself a chance.” - -“A chance! that’s Beaton’s opinion, I suppose--that I have more than a -chance. That’s why you all gather round me like a set of crows, ready to -pounce upon the carcass. And Madam, Madam here, can scarcely hold -herself in, thinking how soon she will be free.” He pushed back his -chair, and gazed from one to another with fiery eyes which seemed ready -to burst from their sockets. “A chance! that’s all I’ve got, is it? You -needn’t wait for it, John; there’s not a penny for you.” - -“Reginald, what the doctor says is that you must be calm, that nothing -must be done to bring on those spasms that shake you so. Never mind what -John says; he does not know.” - -“Oh, you!” cried the sick man; “you--you’ve motive enough. It’s freedom -to you. I don’t tell you to scheme for it, I know that’s past praying -for. Nobody can doubt it’s worth your while--a good settlement, and -freedom to dance on my grave as soon as you like, as soon as you have -got me into it. But John has got no motive,” he said again, with a sort -of garrulous pathos; “he’ll gain nothing. He’ll rather lose something -perhaps, for he couldn’t have the run of the house if it were yours, as -he has done all his life. Yours!” the sick man added, with concentrated -wrath and scorn; “it shall never be yours; I shall see to that. Where is -the note to Charley--Charley Blake? John, take charge of it for me; see -that it’s put in the post. She has the bag in her hands, and how can I -tell whether she will let it go? She was a great deal too ready to write -it, eh? don’t you think, knowing it was against herself?” - -After this cheerful morning’s talk, which was the ordinary kind of -conversation that went on in Mr. Trevanion’s room, from which John -Trevanion could escape and did very shortly, but Madam could not and did -not, the heavy day went on, little varied. Mrs. Trevanion appeared at -lunch with a sufficiently tranquil countenance, and entered into the -ordinary talk of a family party with a composure or philosophy which was -a daily miracle to the rest. She checked little Sophy’s impertinences -and attended to the small pair of young ones like a mother embarrassed -with no cares less ignoble. There was an air of great gravity about her, -but not more than the critical condition of her husband’s health made -natural. And the vicar, who came in to lunch to ask after the squire, -saw nothing in Madam’s manner that was not most natural and seemly. He -told his wife afterwards that she took it beautifully; “Very serious, -you know, very anxious, but resigned and calm.” Mrs. Vicar was of -opinion that were she Mrs. Trevanion she would be more than resigned, -for everybody knew that Madam had “a great deal to put up with.” But -from her own aspect no one could have told the continual flood of insult -to which she was exposed, the secret anxiety that was gnawing at her -heart. In the evening, before dinner, she met her brother-in-law by -accident before the great fireplace in the hall. She was sitting there, -thrown down in one of the deep chairs, like a worn-out creature. It was -rare to see her there, though it was the common resort of the household, -and so much, in spite of himself, had John Trevanion been moved by the -sense of mystery about, and by his brother’s vituperations, that his -first glance was one of suspicion. But his approach took her by -surprise. Her face was hidden in her hands, and there was an air of -abandon in her attitude and figure as if she had thrown herself, like a -wounded animal, before the fire. She uncovered her face, and, he -thought, furtively, hastily dried her eyes as she turned to see who was -coming. Pity was strong in his heart, notwithstanding his suspicion, he -came forward and looked down upon her kindly. “I am very glad,” he said, -“to see that you are able to get a moment to yourself.” - -“Yes,” she said, “Reginald seems more comfortable to-night.” - -“Grace,” said John Trevanion, “it is beyond human patience. You ought -not to have all this to bear.” - -“Oh, nothing is beyond human patience,” she said, looking up at him -suddenly with a smile. “Never mind, I can bear it very well. After all, -there is no novelty in it to wound me. I have been bearing the same sort -of thing for many years.” - -“And you have borne it without a murmur. You are a very wonderful woman, -or--” - -“What do you mean? Do you think me a bad one? It would not be wonderful -after all you have heard. But I am not a bad woman, John. I am not -without blame; who is? But I am not what he says. This is mere weakness -to defend myself; but when one has been beaten down all day long by one -perpetual flood like a hailstorm-- What was that? I thought I heard -Reginald’s voice.” - -“It was nothing; some of the servants. I am very sorry for you, Grace. -If anything can be done to ease you--” - -“Nothing can be done. I think talking does him good; and what is the use -of a man’s wife if not to hear everything he has to say? It diverts the -evil from others, and I hope from himself too. Yes, I do think so; it is -an unpleasant way of working it out, and yet I think, like the modes -they adopt in surgery sometimes, it relieves the system. So let him -talk,” she went on with a sigh. “It will be hard, though, if I am to -lose the support of your good opinion, John.” - -To this he made no direct answer, but asked, hurriedly, “What do you -suppose he wants with Charley Blake? Charley specially, not his father, -whom I have more faith in?” - -“Something about his will, I suppose. Oh, perhaps not anything of -consequence. He tries to scare me, threatening something--but it is not -for that that I am afraid.” - -“We shall be able to do you justice in that point. Of what are you -afraid?” - -She rose with a sudden impulse and stood by him in the firelight, almost -as tall as he, and with a certain force of indignation in her which gave -her an air of command and almost grandeur beside the man who suspected -and hesitated. “Nothing!” she said, as if she flung all apprehension -from her. John, whose heart had been turned from her, felt himself -melting against his will. She repeated after a time, more gently, “I -know that if passion can suggest anything it will be done. And he will -not have time to reconsider, to let his better nature--” (here she -paused, and in spite of herself a faint smile, in which there was some -bitterness, passed over her face) “his better nature speak,” she said, -slowly; “therefore I am prepared for everything and fear nothing.” - -“This sounds not like courage, but despair.” - -“And so it is. Is it wonderful that it should be despair rather than -courage after all these years? I am sure there is something wrong. -Listen; don’t you hear it? That is certainly Reginald’s voice.” - -“No, no, you are excited. What could it be? He wants something, perhaps, -and he always calls loudly for whatever he wants. It is seldom I can see -you for a moment. I want to tell you that I will see Blake and find out -from him--” - -“I must go to Reginald, John.” - -She was interrupted before she had crossed the hall by the sudden -appearance of Russell, who pushed through the curtain which hung over -the passage leading to Mr. Trevanion’s room, muffling herself in it in -her awkwardness. The woman was scared and trembling. “Where’s Madam, -Madam?” she said. “She’s wanted; oh, she’s wanted badly! He’s got a fit -again.” - -Mrs. Trevanion flew past the trembling woman like a shadow. “It is your -doing,” she said, with a voice that rung into Russell’s heart. The -intruder was entirely unhinged. “I never saw him in one before. It’s -dreadful; oh, it’s dreadful! Doctor! doctor! oh, where’s the doctor?” -she cried, losing all command of herself, and shrieking forth the name -in a way which startled the house. The servants came running from all -sides; the children, terror-stricken, half by the cry, half by the sound -of Russell’s voice, so familiar to them, appeared, a succession of -little wistful faces, upon the stair, while the doctor himself pushed -through, startled, but with all his wits about him. “How has it -happened? You’ve been carrying your ill-tempered chatter to him. I’ll -have you tried for manslaughter,” the doctor said. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Rosalind Trevanion was a girl who had never had a lover--at least, such -was her own conviction. She even resented the fact a little, thinking it -wonderful that when all the girls in novels possessed such interests she -had none. To attain to the mature age of eighteen, in a wealthy and -well-known house where there were many visitors, and where she had all -the advantages that a good position can give, without ever having -received that sign of approbation which is conveyed by a declaration of -love, was very strange in the point of view of fiction. And as she had -few friends of her own age at hand to consult with, and an absorbing -attachment and friendship for an older woman to fill up the void, novels -were her chief informants as to the ordinary events of youthful life. It -is an unfortunate peculiarity of these works that their almost exclusive -devotion to one subject is too likely to confuse the ideas of young -women in this particular. In old-fashioned English fiction, and in the -latest American variety of the art, no girl who respected herself could -be satisfied with less than half a dozen proposals: which is a -circumstance likely to rouse painful questionings in the hearts of our -young contemporaries. Here was a girl not unconscious that she was what -is generally known as “a nice girl,” with everything favorable in her -circumstances; and yet she had not as yet either accepted or refused -anybody! It was curious. Young Hamerton, who had been staying at -Highcourt at the uncomfortable moment already described, was indeed -prone to seek her society, and unfolded himself rashly to her in talk, -with that indescribable fatuity which young men occasionally show in -presence of girls, moved perhaps by the too great readiness of the kind -to laugh at their jokes and accept their lead. Rosalind, protected by -her knowledge of minds more mature, looked upon Hamerton with a kind of -admiring horror, to think how wonderful it was that a man should be a -man, and superior to all women, and have an education such as women of -ambition admired and envied, and yet be such a ----. She did not say -fool, being very courteous, and unused to strong language. She only said -such a ----; and naturally could no more take him into consideration as a -lover than if he had been one of the footmen. It was not beyond her -consciousness either, perhaps, that Charley Blake, the son and partner -of the family lawyer, whom business often brought to Highcourt, -contemplated her often with his bold black eyes in a marked and -unmistakable way. But that was a piece of presumption which Miss -Trevanion thought of as a princess royal might regard the sighs of a -courtier. Rosalind had the eclectic and varying political views held by -young women of intelligence in the present time. She smiled at the old -Toryism about her. She chose her men and her measures from both parties, -and gave her favorites a hot but somewhat fluctuating support. She felt -very sure that of all things in the world she was not an aristocrat, -endeavoring to shut the gates of any exclusive world against success -(which she called genius); therefore it could not be this thoroughly -old-world feeling which prompted her disdain of Charley Blake. She was -of opinion that a poor man of genius struggling upward towards fame was -the sublimest sight on earth, and that to help in such a struggle was a -far finer thing for a woman to do than to marry a duke or a prince. But -no such person had ever come in her way, nor any one else so gifted, so -delightful, so brilliant, and so tender as to merit the name of a lover. -She was a little surprised, but referred the question to statistics, and -said to herself that because of the surplus of women those sort of -things did not happen nowadays: though, indeed, this was a theory -somewhat invalidated by the fact that most of the young ladies in the -county were married or about to be so. The position altogether did not -convey any sense of humiliation to Rosalind. It gave her rather a sense -of superiority, as of one who lifts her head in native worth superior to -the poor appreciation of the crowd. How the sense of being overlooked -should carry with it this sense of superiority is for the philosopher to -say. - -These thoughts belonged to the lighter and happier portion of her life, -and were at present subdued by very sombre reflections. When she walked -out in the morning after these events there was, however, a certain -sense of emancipation in her mind. Her father had again been very -ill--so ill that during the whole night the house had been on the alert, -and scarcely any one had ventured to go to bed. Rosalind had spent half -the night in the hall with her uncle, expecting every moment a summons -to the sick-room, to what everybody believed to be the deatbed of the -sufferer; and there had crept through the house a whisper, how -originating no one could tell, that it was after an interview with -Russell that the fit had come on, and that she had carried him some -information about Madam which had almost killed him. Nobody had any -doubt that it was to Madam that Russell’s report referred, and there -were many wonderings and questions in the background, where the servants -congregated, as to what it was. That Madam went out of nights; that she -met some one in the park, and there had long and agitated interviews; -that Jane knew all about it, more than any one, and could ruin her -mistress if she chose to speak; but that Russell too had found out a -deal, and that it had come to master’s ears through her; and full time -it did, for who ever heard of goings-on like this in a gentleman’s -house?--this is what was said among the servants. In superior regions -nothing was said at all. Rosalind and her uncle kept together, as -getting a vague comfort in the universal dreariness from being together. -Now and then John Trevanion stole to the door of his brother’s room, -which stood open to give all the air possible, to see or hear how things -were going. One time when he did so his face was working with emotion. - -“Rosalind,” he said, in the whisper which they spoke in, though had they -spoken as loudly as their voices would permit no sound could have -reached the sick-room; “Rosalind, I think that woman is sublime. She -knows that the first thing he will do will be to harm and shame her, and -yet there she is, doing everything for him. I don’t know if she is a -sinner or not, but she is sublime--” - -“Who are you speaking of as that woman?--of MY MOTHER, Uncle John?” -cried Rosalind, expanding and growing out of her soft girlhood into a -sort of indignant guardian angel. He shook his head impatiently and sat -down; and nothing more was said between them till the middle of the -night, when Dr. Beaton coming in told them the worst was over, and for -the moment the sick man would “pull through.” “But I’ll have that nurse -in confinement. I’ll send her to the asylum. It is just manslaughter,” -he said. Russell, very pale and frightened, was at her door when -Rosalind went up-stairs. - -“The doctor says he will have you tried for manslaughter,” Rosalind -said, as she passed her. “No, I will not say good-night. You have all -but killed papa.” - -“It is not I that have killed him,” said Russell; “it’s those that do -what they didn’t ought to.” - -Rosalind, in her excitement, stamped her foot upon the floor. - -“He says you shall be sent to the asylum; and I say you shall be sent -away from here. You are a bad woman. Perhaps now you will kill the -children to complete your work. We are none of us safe so long as you -are here.” - -At this Russell gave a bitter cry and threw up her hands to heaven. - -“The children,” she cried, “that I love like my own--that I give my -heart’s blood for--not safe! Oh, Miss Rosalind! God forgive you!--you, -that I have loved the best of all!” - -“How should I forgive you?” cried Rosalind, relentless. “I will never -forgive you. Hate me if you please, but never dare to say you love me. -Love!--you don’t know what it is. You should go away to-night if it were -I who had the power and not mamma.” - -“She has the power yet. She will not have it long,” the woman cried, in -her terror and passion. And she shut herself up in her room, which -communicated with the children’s, and flung herself on the floor in a -panic which was perhaps as tragical as any of the other sensations of -this confused and miserable house. - -And yet when Rosalind went out next morning she was able to withdraw -herself, in a way inconceivable to any one who has not been young and -full of imaginations, from the miseries and terrors of the night. Mr. -Trevanion was much exhausted, but living, and in his worn-out, feeble -state required constant care and nursing, without being well enough to -repay that nursing with abuse, as was his wont. Rosalind, with no one to -turn to for companionship, went out and escaped. She got clear of that -small, yet so important, world, tingling with emotion, with death and -life in the balance, and everything that is most painful in life, and -escaped altogether, as if she had possessed those wings of a dove for -which we all long, into another large and free and open world, in which -there was a wide, delightful air which blew in her face, and every kind -of curiosity and interest and hope. How it was she fell to thinking of -the curious fact that she had not, and had never had, a lover, at such a -moment, who can tell? Perhaps because it occurred to her at first that -it would be well to have something, somebody, to escape to and take -comfort in, when she was so full of trouble, without knowing that the -wide atmosphere and fresh sky and bare trees, that discharged, whenever -the breath of the wind touched them, a sharp little shower of -rain-drops, were enough at her age to woo her out of the misery which -was not altogether personal, though she was so wound up in the lives of -all the sufferers. She escaped. That thought about the lover, which was -intended to be pathetic, beguiled her into a faint laugh under her -breath; for indeed it was amusing, if even only ruefully amusing, to be -so unlike the rest of the young world. That opened to her, as it were, -the gate; and then her imagination ran on, like the lawless, sweet young -rover it was, to all kinds of things amusing and wonderful. Those whose -life is all to come, what a playground they have to fly into when the -outside is unharmonious! how to fill up all those years; what to do in -the time that is endless, that will never be done; how to meet those -strange events, those new persons, those delights and wonders that are -all waiting round the next and the next corner! If she had thought of -it she would have been ashamed of herself for this very amusement, but -fortunately she did not think of it, and so let herself go, like the -child she was. She took her intended walk through the park, and then, as -the morning was bright, after lingering at the gate a little, went out -into the road, and turned to the village without any particular -intention, because it was near and the red roofs shone in the light. It -was a fresh, bright morning, such as sometimes breaks the dulness of -November. The sky was as blue as summer, with wandering white cloudlets, -and not a sign of any harm, though there had been torrents of rain the -night before. Indeed, no doubt it was the pouring down of those torrents -which had cleared away the tinge of darkness from the clouds, which were -as innocent and filmy and light as if it had been June. Everything was -glistening and gleaming with wet, but that only made the country more -bright, and as Rosalind looked along the road, the sight of the red -village with its smoke rising ethereal into air so pure that it was a -happiness to gaze into its limpid, invisible depths, or rather heights, -ending in heavens, was enough to cheer any young soul. She went on, with -a little sense of adventure, for though she often went to the village, -it was rare to this girl to have the privilege of being absolutely -alone. The fresh air, the glistening hedgerows, the village roofs, in -all the shining of the sunshine, pleased her so much that she did not -see till she was close to it a break in the road, where the water which -had submerged the low fields on either side had broken across the higher -ground, finding a sort of channel in a slight hollow of the road. The -sight of a laborer plashing through it, with but little thought, though -it came up to the top of his rough boots, arrested Rosalind all at once. -What was she to do? _Her_ boots, though with the amount of high heel -which only a most independent mind can escape from, were clearly quite -unequal to this crossing. She could not but laugh to herself at the -small matter which stopped progress, and stood on the edge of it -measuring the distance with her eye, and calculating probabilities with -a smiling face, amused by the difficulty. While she stood thus she heard -a voice behind her calling to the laborer in front. “Hi!” some one said; -“Hallo, you there! help me to lift this log over the water, that the -lady may cross.” The person appealed to turned round, and so did -Rosalind. And then she felt that here was indeed an adventure. Behind -her, stooping over some large logs of wood on the side of the pathway, -was the man who had looked so intently at the carriage the other day -when she passed with her stepmother. Before she saw his face she was -sure, with a little jump of her heart, that it was the same man. He was -dressed in dark tweed clothes, somewhat rough, which might have been the -garb of a gentleman or of a gamekeeper, and did not fit him well, which -was more like the latter than the former. She could see, as he stooped, -his cheek and throat reddened as with the unusual exertion. - -“Oh, please do not take the trouble,” she cried; “it is of no -consequence. I have nothing to do in the village.” - -“It is no trouble,” he said; and in a minute or two the logs were rolled -across the side path so that she could pass. The man who had been called -upon to help was one of the farm-laborers whom she knew. She thanked him -cheerfully by name, and turned to the stranger, who stood with his hat -off, his pale face, which she remembered to have been so pale that she -thought him ill, now covered with a brilliant flush which made his eyes -shine. Rosalind was startled by the beauty of the face, but it was not -like that of the men she was accustomed to see. Something feminine, -something delicate and weak, was in it. - -“You are very kind to take so much trouble; but I am afraid you have -over-exerted yourself,” she cried. - -This made the young man blush more deeply still. - -“I am not very strong,” he said half indignantly, “but not so weak as -that.” There was a tone of petulance in the reply; and then he added, -“Whatever trouble it might be is more than repaid,” with a somewhat -elaborate bow. - -What did it mean? The face was refined and full of expression, but then -probably he was not a gentleman, Rosalind thought, and did not -understand. She said hurriedly again, “I am very much obliged to you,” -and went on, a little troubled by the event. She heard him make a few -steps after her. Was he going to follow? In her surprise it was almost -on her lips to call back William from the farm. - -“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, “but may I take the liberty of -asking how is Mr. Trevanion? I heard he was worse last night.” - -Rosalind turned round, half reassured. - -“Oh, do you know papa?” she said. “He has been very ill all night, but -he is better, though terribly exhausted. He has had some sleep this -morning.” - -She was elevated upon the log, which she had begun to cross, and thus -looked down upon the stranger. If he knew her father, that made all the -difference; and surely the face was one with which she was not -unfamiliar. - -“I do not know Mr. Trevanion, only one hears of him constantly in the -village. I am glad he is better.” - -He hesitated, as if he too was about to mount the log. - -“Oh, thank you,” said Rosalind, hurrying on. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -“To whom were you talking, Rosalind?” - -“To--nobody, Uncle John!” she said, in her surprise at the sudden -question which came over her shoulder, and, turning round, waited till -he joined her. She had changed her mind and come back after she had -crossed the water upon the impromptu bridge, with a half apprehension -that her new acquaintance intended to accompany her to the village, and -had, to tell the truth, walked rather quickly to the park gates. - -“But I met the man--a young fellow--whose appearance I don’t know.” - -“Oh! I don’t know who it was either; a gentleman; at least, I suppose he -was a gentleman.” - -“And yet you doubt. What cause had you to doubt?” - -“Well, Uncle John, his voice was nice enough, and what he said. The only -thing was, he paid me a sort of a--compliment.” - -“What was that?” said John Trevanion, quickly. - -“Oh, nothing,” said Rosalind, inconsistently. “When I said I was sorry -he had taken the trouble, he said, ‘Oh, if it was any trouble it was -repaid.’ Nothing at all! Only a gentleman would not have said that to a -girl who was--alone.” - -“That is true; but it was not very much after all. Fashions change. A -few generations ago it would have been the right thing.” Then he dropped -the subject as a matter without importance, and drew his niece’s arm -within his own. “Rosie,” he said, “I am afraid we shall have to face the -future, you and I. What are we to do?” - -“Are things so very bad, Uncle John?” she cried, and the tears came -welling up into her eyes as she raised them to his face. - -“Very bad, I fear. This last attack has done him a great deal of harm, -more than any of the others; perhaps, because, as the doctor says, the -pace is quicker as he gets near the end, perhaps because he is still as -angry as ever, though he is not able to give it vent. I wonder if such -fury may not have some adequate cause.” - -“Oh, Uncle John!” Rosalind cried; she clasped her hands upon his arm, -looking up at him through her tears. He knew what was the meaning in her -tone, though it was a meaning very hard to put into words. A child -cannot say of her father when he is dying that his fury has often been -without any adequate cause. - -“I know,” he said, “and I acknowledge that no one could have a more -devoted nurse. But whether there have not been concealments, clandestine -acts, things he has a right to find fault with--” - -“Even I,” said Rosalind, hastily, “and I have nothing to hide--even I -have had to make secrets from papa.” - -“That is the penalty, of course, of a temper so passionate. But she -should not have let you do so, Rosalind.” - -“It was not she. You think everything is her fault; oh, how mistaken you -are! My mother and I,” cried the girl, impetuously, “have no secrets -from each other.” - -John Trevanion looked into the young, ingenuous countenance with -anxiety: “Then, Rosalind,” he said, “where is it that she goes? Why does -she go out at that hour of all others, in the dark? Whom does she meet? -If you know all this, I think there cannot be another word to say; for -nothing that is not innocent would be intrusted to you.” - -Rosalind was silent. She ceased to look at him, and even withdrew her -clasping hands from his arm. - -“You have nothing to say? There it is: she has no secrets from you, and -yet you can throw no light on this one secret. I have always had a great -admiration and respect for your stepmother, Rosalind.” - -“I wish you would not call her my stepmother! It hurts me. What other -mother have I ever known?” - -“My dear, your love for her is a defence in itself. But, Rosalind, -forgive me, there is some complication here. If she will not explain, -what are we to do? A mystery is always a sign of something wrong; at -least, it must be taken for something wrong if it remains unexplained. I -am, I hope, without passion or prejudice. She might have confided in -me--” - -“If there was anything to confide,” Rosalind said under her breath. But -he went on. - -“And now your father has sent for his lawyer--to do something, to change -something. I can’t tell what he means to do, but it will be trouble in -any case. And you, Rosalind--I said so before, you--must not stay here.” - -“If you mean that I am to leave my mother, Uncle John--” - -“Hush! not your mother. My dear, you must allow others to judge for you -here. Had you been her child it would have been different: but we must -take thought for your best interests. Who is that driving in at the -gate? Why, it is Blake already. I wonder if a second summons has been -sent. He was not expected till to-morrow. This looks worse and worse, -Rosalind.” - -“Uncle John, if you will let me, I will run in another way. I--don’t -wish to meet Mr. Blake.” - -“Hallo, Rosalind! you don’t mean to say that Charley Blake has ever -presumed-- Ah! this comes of not having a mother’s care.” - -“It is nothing of the kind,” she cried, drawing her hand violently from -his arm. “He hates her because she never would-- Oh, how can you be so -cruel, so prejudiced, so unjust?” In her vehemence Rosalind pushed him -away from her with a force which made his steady, middle-aged figure -almost swerve, and darted across the park away from him just in time to -make it evident to Mr. Blake, driving his dog-cart quickly to make up to -the group in advance, that it was to avoid him Miss Trevanion had fled. - -“How is he?” was the eager question he put as he came up to John -Trevanion. “I hope I am not too late.” - -“For what? If it is my brother you mean, I hear he is a little better,” -said John, coldly. - -“Then I suppose it is only one of his attacks,” the new-comer said, with -a slight tone of disappointment; not that he had any interest in the -death of Mr. Trevanion, but that the fall from the excitement of a great -crisis to the level of the ordinary is always disagreeable. “I thought -from the telegram this morning there was no time to lose.” - -“Who sent you the telegram this morning?” - -“Madam Trevanion, of course,” said the young man. - -This reply took John Trevanion so much by surprise that he went on -without a word. - -She knew very well what Blake’s visit portended to herself. But what a -strange, philosophical stoic was this woman, who did not hesitate -herself to summon, to hasten, lest he should lose the moment in which -she could still be injured, the executioner of her fate. A sort of awe -came over John. He begun to blame himself for his miserable doubts of -such a woman. There was something in this silent impassioned performance -of everything demanded from her that impressed the imagination. After a -few minutes’ slow pacing along, restraining his horse, Blake threw the -reins to his groom, and, jumping down, walked on by John Trevanion’s -side. - -“I suppose there is no such alarming hurry, then,” he said. “Of course -you know what’s up now?” - -“If you mean what are my brother’s intentions, I know nothing about -them,” John said. - -“No more do I. I can’t think what he’s got in his mind; though we have -been very confidential over it all.” Mr. Blake elder was an -old-fashioned and polite old gentleman, but his son belonged to another -world, and pushed his way by means of a good deal of assurance and no -regard to any one’s feelings. “It would be a great assistance to me,” he -said, “if he’s going to tamper with that will again, to know how the -land lies. What is wrong? There must have been, by all I hear, a great -flare-up.” - -“Will you remember, Blake, that you are speaking of my brother’s -affairs? We are not in the habit of having flares-up here.” - -“I mean no offence,” said the other. “It’s a lie, then, that is flying -about the country.” - -“What is flying about the country? If it is about a flare-up you may be -sure it is a lie.” - -“I don’t stand upon the word,” said Blake. “I thought I might speak -frankly to you. Rumors are flying everywhere--that Mr. Trevanion is out -of one fit into another--dying of it--and that Madam--” - -“What of Madam?” said John Trevanion, firmly. - -“I have myself the greatest respect for Mrs. Trevanion,” said the -lawyer, making a sudden pause. - -“You would be a bold man if you expressed any other sentiment here; but -rumor has not the same reverential and perfectly just feeling, I -suppose. What has it ventured to say of my sister?” - -John Trevanion, with all his gravity, was very impulsive; and the sense -that her secret, whatever it was, had been betrayed, bound him at once -to her defence. He had probably never called her his sister before. - -“Of course it is all talk,” said Blake. “I dare say the story means -nothing; but knowing as I do so much about the state of affairs -generally--a lawyer, you know, like a doctor, and people used to say a -clergyman--” - -“Is bound to hold his tongue, is he not?” John Trevanion said. - -“Oh, as for that, a member of the family is not like a stranger. I took -it for granted you would naturally be on the injured husband’s side.” - -“Mr. Blake,” said John, “you make assumptions which would be intolerable -even to a stranger, and to a brother and friend, understanding the whole -matter, I hope, a little better than you do, they are not less so, but -more. Look here; a lawyer has this advantage, that he is sometimes able -to calm the disordered fancy of a sick man, and put things in a better -light. Take care what you do. Don’t let the last act of his life be an -injustice if you can help it. Your father--if your father were here--” - -“Would inspire Mr. John Trevanion with more confidence,” said the other, -with a suppressed sneer. “It is unfortunate, but that is not your -brother’s opinion. He has preferred the younger man, as some do.” - -“I hope you will justify his choice,” said John Trevanion, gravely. “It -is a great responsibility. To make serious changes in a moment of -passion is always dangerous--and, remember, my brother will in all -probability have no time to repent.” - -“The responsibility will be Mr. Trevanion’s, not mine,” said Blake. “You -should warn him, not me. His brother must have more constant access to -him than even his family lawyer, and is in a better position. I am here -to execute his wishes; that is all that I have to do with it.” - -John Trevanion bowed without a word. It was true enough. The elder Blake -would perhaps have been of still less use in stemming the passionate -tide of the sick man’s fury, but at least he would have struggled -against it. They walked up to the house almost without exchanging -another word. In the hall they were met by Madam Trevanion, upon whom -the constant watching had begun to tell. Her eyes were red, and there -were deep lines under them. All the lines of her face were drawn and -haggard. She met the new-comer with an anxious welcome, as if he had -been a messenger of good and not of evil. - -“I am very glad you have come, Mr. Blake. Thank you for being so prompt. -My husband perhaps, after he has seen you, will be calmer and able to -rest. Will you come to his room at once?” - -If he had been about to secure her a fortune she could not have been -more anxious to introduce him. She came back to the hall after she had -led him to Mr. Trevanion’s room. - -“I am restless,” she said; “I cannot be still. Do you know, for the -first time he has sent me away. He will not have me with him. Before, -whatever he might have against me was forgotten when he needed me. God -grant that this interview he is so anxious for may compose him and put -things on their old footing.” - -Perhaps it was only her agitation and distress, but as she spoke the -tears came and choked her voice. John Trevanion came up to her, and -laying his hands upon her shoulders gazed into her face. - -“Grace,” he said, “is it possible that you can be sincere?” - -“Sincere!” she cried, looking at him with a strange incomprehension. She -had no room in her mind for metaphysical questions, and she was -impatient of them at such a crisis of fate. - -“Yes, sincere. You know that man has come for some evil purpose. -Whatever they say or do together it will be to your hurt, you know; and -yet you hasten his coming, and tell him you are glad when he arrives--” - -“And you think it must be false? No, it is not false, John,” she said, -with a faint smile. “So long as he does it and gets it off his mind, -what is it to me? Do you know that he is perhaps dying? I have nursed -him and been the only one that he would have near him for years. Do you -think I care what happens after? But I cannot bear to be put out of my -own place now.” - -“Your own place! to bear all his caprices and abuse!” - -“My own place, by my husband’s bedside,” she said with tears. “When he -has done whatever he wants to do his mind will be relieved. And I can do -more for him than any one. He shortens his own life when he sends me -away.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -The house was in a curious commotion up-stairs. The nursery apartments -were at the end of a passage, but on the same level with those of Mrs. -Trevanion, in which Jane, Madam’s attendant and anxious maid, was -watching--coming out now and then to listen, or standing within the -shelter of the half-closed door. Mrs. Trevanion’s room opened into the -gallery to which the great staircase led, and from which you could look -down into the hall. The nursery was at the end of a long passage, and, -when the door was open, commanded also a view of the gallery. There many -an evening when there was fine company at Highcourt had the children -pressed to see the beautiful ladies coming out in their jewels and -finery, dressed for dinner. The spectacle now was not so imposing, but -Russell, seated near the door, watched it with concentrated interest. -She was waiting too to see what would happen, with excitement -indescribable and some terror and sense of guilt. Sometimes Jane would -do nothing more than open her mistress’s door, and wait within for any -sound or sight that might be possible. Sometimes she would step out with -a furtive, noiseless step upon the gallery, and cast a quick look round -and below into the hall, then return again noiselessly. Russell watched -all these evidences of an anxiety as intense as her own with a sense of -relief and encouragement. Jane was as eager as she was, watching over -her mistress. Why was she thus watching? If Madam had been blameless, -was it likely that any one would be on the alert like this? Russell -herself was very sure of her facts. She had collected them with the care -which hatred takes to verify its accusations; and yet cold doubts would -trouble her, and she was relieved to see her opponent, the devoted -adherent of the woman whose well-being was at stake, in a state of so -much perturbation and anxiety. It was another proof, more potent than -any of the rest. The passage which led to Russell’s domain was badly -lighted, and she could not be seen as she sat there at her post like a -spy. She watched with an intense passion which concentrated all her -thoughts. When she heard the faint little jar of the door she brightened -involuntarily. The figure of Jane--slim, dark, noiseless--standing out -upon the gallery was comfort to her very soul. The children were playing -near. Sophy, perched up at the table, was cutting out pictures from a -number of illustrated papers and pasting them into a book, an occupation -which absorbed her. The two younger children were on the floor, where -they went on with their play, babbling to each other, conscious of -nothing else. It had begun to rain, and they were kept indoors perforce. -A more peaceful scene could not be. The fire, surrounded by the high -nursery fender, burned warmly and brightly. In the background, at a -window which looked out upon the park, the nursery-maid--a still figure, -like a piece of still life but for the measured movement of her -hand--sat sewing. The little ones interchanged their eager little -volleys of talk. They were “pretending to be” some of the actors in the -bigger drama of life that went on over their heads. But their little -performance was only Comedy, and it was Tragedy incarnate, with hands -trembling too much to knit the little sock which she held, with dry lips -parted with excitement, eyes feverish and shining, and an impassioned -sense of power, of panic, and of guilt, that sat close to them in her -cap and apron at the open door. - -When Rosalind’s figure flitted across the vacant scene, which was like -the stage of a theatre to Russell, her first impulse was to start up and -secure this visitor from the still more important field of battle below, -so as to procure the last intelligence how things were going; and it was -with a deepened sense of hostility, despite, and excitement that she now -saw her approached by the rival watcher. Jane arrested the young lady on -her way to her room, and they had an anxious conversation, during which -first one and then both approached the railing of the gallery and looked -over. It was all that the woman could do to restrain herself. What were -they looking at? What was going on? It is seldom that any ordinary human -creature has the consciousness of having set such tremendous forces in -motion. It might involve ruin to her mistress, death to her master. The -children whom she loved might be orphaned by her hand. But she was not -conscious of anything deeper than a latent, and not painful, though -exciting, thrill of guilt, and she was very conscious of the exultation -of feeling herself an important party in all that was going on. What had -she done? Nothing but her duty. She had warned a man who was being -deceived; she had exposed a woman who had always kept so fair an -appearance, but whom she, more clear-sighted than any one, had suspected -from the first. Was she not right in every point, doing her duty to Mr. -Trevanion and the house that had sheltered her so long? Was not she -indeed the benefactor of the house, preserving it from shame and injury? -So she said to herself, justifying her own actions with an excitement -which betrayed a doubt; and in the meantime awaiting the result with -passionate eagerness, incapable of a thought that did not turn round -this centre-- What was to happen? Was there an earthquake, a terrible -explosion, about to burst forth? The stillness was ominous and dreadful -to the watching woman who had put all these powers in motion. She feared -yet longed for the first sound of the coming outburst; and yet all the -while had a savage exultation in her heart in the thought of having been -able to bring the whole world about her to such a crisis of fate. - -Jane in the meantime had stopped Rosalind, who was breathless with her -run across the park. The woman was much agitated and trembling. “Miss -Rosalind,” she said, with pale lips, “is there something wrong? I see -Madam in the hall; she is not with master, and he so ill. Oh! what is -wrong--what is wrong?” - -“I don’t know, Jane; nothing, I hope. Papa is perhaps asleep, and there -is some one-- Mr. Blake--come to see him. My mother is waiting till he is -gone.” - -“Oh! that is perhaps why she is there,” said Jane, with relief; then she -caught the girl timidly by the arm. “You will forgive me, Miss Rosalind; -she has enemies--there are some who would leave nothing undone to harm -her.” - -“To harm mamma!” said Rosalind, holding her head high; “you forget -yourself, Jane. Who would harm her in this house?” - -Jane gave the girl a look which was full of gratitude, yet of miserable -apprehension. “You will always be true to her, Miss Rosalind,” she -said; “and oh, you have reason, for she has been a good mother to you.” - -Rosalind looked at the woman somewhat sternly, for she was proud in her -way. “If I did not know how fond you are of mamma,” she said, “I should -be angry. Does any one ever talk so of mother and daughter? That is all -a matter of course; both that she is the best mother in the world, and -that I am part of herself.” - -Upon this Jane did what an Englishwoman is very slow to do. She got hold -of Rosalind’s hand, and made a struggle to kiss it, with tears. “Oh, -Miss Rosalind, God bless you! I’d rather hear that than have a fortune -left me,” she cried. “And my poor lady will want it all; she will want -it all!” - -“Don’t be silly, Jane. My mother wants nothing but that we should have a -little sense. What can any one do against her, unless it is you and the -rest annoying her by foolish anxiety about nothing. Indeed, papa is very -ill, and there is reason enough to be anxious,” the girl added, after a -pause. - -In the meantime Madam Trevanion sat alone in the hall below. She -received Blake, when he arrived, as we have seen, and she had a brief -conversation with her brother-in-law, which agitated her a little. But -when he left her, himself much agitated and not knowing what to think, -she sat down again and waited, alone and unoccupied; a thing that -scarcely ever in her full life happened to her. She, too, felt the -stillness before the tempest. It repeated itself in her mind in a -strange, fatal calm, a sort of cessation of all emotion. She had said to -John Trevanion that she did not care what came after; and she did not; -yet the sense that something was being done which would seriously affect -her future life, even though she was not susceptible of much feeling on -the subject, made the moment impressive. Calm and strong, indeed, must -the nerves be of one who can wait outside the closed door of a room in -which her fate is being decided, without a thrill. But a sort of false -tranquillity--or was it perhaps the calmest of all moods, the stillness -of despair?--came on her as she waited. There is a despair which is -passion, and raves; but there is a different kind of despair, not called -forth by any great practical danger, but by a sense of the -impossibilities of life, the powerlessness of human thought or action, -which is very still and says little. The Byronic desperation is very -different from that which comes into the heart of a woman when she -stands still amid the irreconcilable forces of existence and feels -herself helpless amid contending wills, circumstances, powers, which she -can neither harmonize nor overcome. The situation in which she stood was -impossible. She saw no way out of it. The sharp sting of her present -uselessness, and the sense that she had been for the first time turned -away from her husband’s bedside, had given a momentary poignancy to her -emotions which roused her, but as that died away she sat and looked her -position in the face with a calm that was appalling. This was what she -had come to at the end of seventeen years--that her position was -impossible. She did not know how to turn or what step to take. On either -side of her was a mind that did not comprehend and a heart that did not -feel for her. She could neither touch nor convince the beings upon whom -her very existence depended. Andromeda, waiting for the monster to -devour her, had at least the danger approaching but from one quarter, -and, on the other, always the possibility of a Perseus in shining armor -to cleave the skies. But Madam had on either side of her an insatiable -fate, and no help, she thought, on earth or in heaven. For there comes a -moment in the experience of all who have felt very deeply, when Heaven, -too, seems to fail. Praying long, with no visible reply, drains out the -heart. There seems nothing more left to say even to God, no new argument -to employ with him, who all the while knows better than he can be told. -And there she was, still, silent in her soul as well as with her lips, -waiting, with almost a sense of ease in the thought that there was -nothing more to be done, not even a prayer to be said, her heart, her -thoughts, her wishes, all standing arrested as before an impenetrable -wall which stopped all effort. And how still the house was! All the -doors closed, the sounds of the household lost in the distance of long -passages and shut doors and curtains; nothing to disturb the stillness -before the tempest should burst. She was not aware of the anxious looks -of her maid, now and then peering over the balustrade of the gallery -above, for Jane’s furtive footstep made no sound upon the thick carpet. -Through the glass door she saw the clear blue of the sky, radiant in the -wintry sunshine, but still, as wintry brightness is, without the -flickers of light and shadow. And thus the morning hours went on. - -A long time, it seemed a lifetime, passed before her repose was -disturbed. It had gradually got to be like an habitual state, and she -was startled to be called back from it. The heavy curtain was lifted, -and first Mr. Blake, then Dr. Beaton, came forth. The first looked -extremely grave and disturbed, as he came out with a case of papers -which he had brought with him in his hand. He looked at Mrs. Trevanion -with a curious, deprecating air, like that of a man who has injured -another unwillingly. They had never been friends, and Madam had shown -her sentiments very distinctly as to those overtures of admiration which -the young lawyer had taken upon himself to make to Rosalind. The -politeness he showed to her on ordinary occasions was the politeness of -hostility. But now he looked at her alarmed, as if he could not support -her glance, and would fain have avoided the sight of her altogether. Dr. -Beaton, on the other hand, came forward briskly. - -“I have just been called in to our patient,” he said, “and you are very -much wanted, Mrs. Trevanion.” - -“Does he want me?” she said. - -“I think so--certainly. You are necessary to him; I understand your -delicacy in being absent while Mr. Blake--” - -“Do not deceive yourself, doctor; it was not my delicacy.” - -“Come, please,” said the doctor, almost impatiently; “come at once.” - -Blake stood looking after them till both disappeared behind the curtain, -then drew a long breath, as if relieved by her departure. “I wonder if -she has any suspicion,” he said to himself. Then he made a long pause -and walked about the hall, and considered the pictures with the eye of a -man who might have to look over the inventory of them for sale. Then he -added to himself, “What an old devil!” half aloud. Of whom it was that -he uttered this sentiment no one could tell, but it came from the bottom -of his heart. - -Madam did not leave the sick-chamber again that day. She did not appear -at luncheon, for which perhaps the rest were thankful, as she was -herself. How to look her in the face, with this mingled doubt of her and -respect for her, nobody knew. Rosalind alone was disappointed. The -doctor took everything into his own hands. He was now the master of the -situation, and ruled everybody. “She is the best woman I ever knew,” he -said, with fervor. “I would rather trust her with a case than any Sister -in the land. I said to her that I thought she would do better to stay. -Mr. Trevanion was very glad to get her back.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -As so often happens when all is prepared and ready for the catastrophe, -the stroke of fate was averted. That night proved better than the last, -and then there passed two or three quiet days. It was even possible, the -doctor thought, that the alarm might be a false one, and the patient go -on, if tranquil and undisturbed, until, in the course of nature, another -crisis prepared itself or external commotion accelerated nature. He had -received his wife back after her few hours’ banishment with a sort of -chuckling satisfaction, and though even his reduced and enfeebled state -did not make him incapable of offence, the insulting remarks he -addressed to her were no more than his ordinary method. Madam said -nothing of them; she seemed, strangely enough, glad to return to her -martyrdom. It was better, it appeared, than the sensation of being sent -away. She was with him, without rest or intermission, the whole day and -a great portion of the night. The two or three hours allowed her for -repose were in the middle of the night, and she never stirred abroad nor -tasted the fresh air through this period of confinement. The drives -which had been her daily refreshment were stopped, along with every -other possibility of freedom. In the meantime there appeared something -like a fresh development of confidence and dependence upon her, which -wrung the heart of the enemy in her stronghold, and made Russell think -her work had been all in vain. Mr. Trevanion could not, it was said, -bear his wife out of his sight. - -It is a mistake when a dying person thus keeps all his world waiting. -The sympathetic faculties are worn out. The household in general felt a -slight sensation of resentment towards the sick man who had cheated them -into so much interest. It was not as if he had been a man whom his -dependents loved, and he had defrauded them of that profound and serious -interest with which the last steps of any human creature--unless in a -hospital or other agglomeration of humanity, where individual -characteristics are abolished--are accompanied. The servants, who had -with a little awe attended the coming of death, were half disappointed, -half disgusted by the delay. Even John Trevanion, who had made up his -mind very seriously and somewhat against his own convictions to wait -“till all was over,” had a sensation of annoyance: he might go on for -weeks, perhaps for months, all the winter--“thank God!” they said, -mechanically; but John could not help thinking how inconvenient it would -be to come back--to hang on all the winter, never able to go anywhere. -It would have been so much more considerate to get it over at once, but -Reginald was never one who considered other people’s convenience. Dr. -Beaton, who had no desire to leave Highcourt, and who, besides, had a -doctor’s satisfaction in a successful fight with disease, took it much -more pleasantly. He rubbed his hands and expressed his hopes of -“pulling” his patient through, with much unnecessary cordiality. “Let us -but stave off all trouble till spring, and there is no saying what may -happen,” he said, jauntily. “The summer will be all in his favor, and -before next winter we may get him away.” The younger members of the -family took this for granted. Reginald, who had been sent for from -school, begged his mother another time to be sure there was some real -need for it before summoning a fellow home in the middle of the half; -and Rosalind entirely recovered her spirits. The cloud that had hung -over the house seemed about to melt away. Nobody was aware of the -agitating conferences which Jane held with her mistress in the few -moments when they saw each other; or the miserable anxiety which -contended in Madam’s mind with her evident and necessary duties. She had -buried her troubles too long in her own bosom to exhibit them now. And -thus the days passed slowly away; the patient had not yet been allowed -to leave his bed, and, indeed, was in a state of alarming feebleness, -but that was all. - -Rosalind was left very much to herself during these days. She had now no -longer any one to go out with. Sometimes, indeed, her uncle would -propose a walk, but that at the most occupied but a small part of the -day, and all her usual occupations had been suspended in the general -excitement. She took to wandering about the park, where she could stray -alone as much as pleased her, fearing no intrusion. A week or ten days -after the visit of Mr. Blake, she was walking near the lake which was -the pride of Highcourt. In summer the banks of this piece of water were -a mass of flowering shrubs, and on the little artificial island in the -middle was a little equally artificial cottage, the creation of -Rosalind’s grandmother, where still the children in summer would often -go to have tea. One or two boats lay at a little landing-place for the -purpose of transporting visitors, and it was one of the pleasures of the -neighborhood, when the family were absent, to visit the Bijou, as it was -called. At one end of the little lake was a road leading from the -village, to which the public of the place had a right. It was perhaps -out of weariness with the monotony of her lonely walks that Rosalind -directed her steps that way on an afternoon when all was cold and clear, -an orange-red sunset preparing in the west, and indications of frost in -the air. The lake caught the reflection of the sunset blaze and was all -barred with crimson and gold, with the steely blue of its surface coming -in around and intensifying every tint. Rosalind walked slowly round the -margin of the water, and thought of the happy afternoons when the -children and their mother had been rowed across, she herself and Rex -taking the control of the boat. The water looked tempting, with its bars -of color, and the little red roof of the Bijou blazed in the slanting -light. She played with the boats at the landing-place, pushing one into -the water with a half fancy to push forth into the lake, until it had -got almost too far off to be pulled back again, and gave her some -trouble, standing on the edge of the tiny pier with an oar in her hand, -to bring it back to its little anchorage. She was standing thus, her -figure relieved against the still, shining surface of the water, when -she heard a footstep behind her, and thinking it the man who had charge -of the cottage and the boats, called to him without turning round, “Come -here, Dunmore; I have loosed this boat and I can’t get it back--” - -The footstep advanced with a certain hesitation. Then an unfamiliar -voice said, “I am not Dunmore--but if you will allow me to help you--” - -She started and turned round. It was the same stranger whom she had -already twice seen on the road. “Oh! pray don’t let me trouble you. -Dunmore will be here directly,” she said. - -This did not, however, prevent the young man from rendering the -necessary assistance. He got into one of the nearer boats, and -stretching out from the bow of it, secured the stray pinnace. It was not -a dangerous act, nor even one that gave the passer-by much trouble, but -Rosalind, partly out of a sense that she had been ungracious, partly, -perhaps--who can tell--out of the utter monotony of all around her, -thanked him with eagerness. “I am sorry to give you trouble,” she said -again. - -“It is no trouble, it is a pleasure.” Was he going to be so sensible, so -judicious, as to go away after this? He seemed to intend so. He put on -his hat after bowing to her, and turned away, but then there seemed to -be an after-thought which struck him. He turned back again, took off his -hat again, and said: “I beg your pardon, but may I ask for Mr. -Trevanion? The village news is so uncertain.” - -“My father is still very ill,” said Rosalind, “but it is thought there -is now some hope.” - -“That is good news indeed,” the stranger said. Certainly he had a most -interesting face. It could not be possible that a man with such a -countenance was “not a gentleman,” that most damning of all sentences. -His face was refined and delicate; his eyes large, liquid, full of -meaning, which was increased by the air of weakness which made them -larger and brighter than eyes in ordinary circumstances. And certainly -it was kind of him to be glad. - -“Oh, yes, you told me before you knew my father,” Rosalind said. - -“I cannot claim to know Mr. Trevanion; but I do know a member of the -family very well, and I have heard of him all my life.” - -Rosalind was no more afraid of a young man than of an old woman, and she -thought she had been unjust to this stranger, who, after all, -notwithstanding his rough dress, had nothing about him to find fault -with. She said, “Yes; perhaps my Uncle John? In any case I am much -obliged to you, both for helping me and for your interest in papa.” - -“May I sometimes ask how he is? The villagers are so vague.” - -“Oh, certainly,” said Rosalind; “they have a bulletin at the lodge, or -if you care to come so far as Highcourt, you will always have the last -report.” - -“You are very kind, I will not come to the house. But I know that you -often walk in the park. If I may ask you when we--chance to meet?” - -This suggestion startled Rosalind. It awoke in her again that vague -alarm--not, perhaps, a gentleman. But when she looked at the eyes which -were searching hers with so sensitive a perception of every shade of -expression, she became confused and did not know what to think. He was -so quickly sensible of every change that he saw he had taken a wrong -step. He ought to have gone further, and perceived what the wrong step -was, but she thought he was puzzled and did not discover this -instinctively, as a gentleman would have done. She withdrew a step or -two involuntarily. “Oh, no,” she said with gentle dignity, “I do not -always walk the same way; but you may be sure of seeing the bulletin at -the lodge.” And with this she made him a courtesy and walked away, not -hurrying, to show any alarm, but taking a path which was quite out of -the way of the public, and where he could not follow. Rosalind felt a -little thrill of agitation in her as she went home. Who could he be, and -what did he do here, and why did he throw himself in her way? If she had -been a girl of a vulgarly romantic imagination, she would no doubt have -jumped at the idea of a secret adoration which had brought him to the -poor little village for her sake, for the chance of a passing encounter. -But Rosalind was not of this turn of imagination, and that undefined -doubt which wavered in her mind did a great deal to damp the wings of -any such fancy. What he had said was almost equal to asking her to meet -him in the park. She blushed all over at the thought--at the curious -impossibility of it, the want of knowledge. It did not seem an insult to -her, but such an incomprehensible ignorance in him that she was ashamed -of it; that he should have been capable of such a mistake. Not a -gentleman! Oh, surely he could never, never-- And yet the testimony of -those fine, refined features--the mouth so delicate and sensitive, the -eyes so eloquent--was of such a different kind. And was it Uncle John he -knew? But Uncle John had passed him on the road and had not known him. -It was very strange altogether. She could not banish the beautiful, -pleading eyes out of her mind. How they looked at her! They were almost -a child’s eyes in their uncertainty and wistfulness, reading her face to -see how far to go. And altogether he had the air of extreme youth, -almost as young as herself, which, of course, in a man is boyhood. For -what is a man of twenty? ten years, and more, younger and less -experienced than a woman of that sober age. There was a sort of yearning -of pity in her heart towards him, just tempered by that doubt. Poor boy! -how badly he must have been brought up--how sadly ignorant not to know -that a gentleman-- And then she began to remember Lord Lytton’s novels, -some of which she had read. There would have been nothing out of place -in them had such a youth so addressed a lady. He was, indeed, not at all -unlike a young man in Lord Lytton. He interested her very much, and -filled her mind as she went lightly home. Who could he be, and why so -anxious about her father’s health? or was that merely a reason for -addressing her--a way, perhaps he thought, of securing her acquaintance, -making up some sort of private understanding between them. Had not -Rosalind heard somewhere that a boy was opt to select a much older woman -as the object of his first admiration? Perhaps that might furnish an -explanation for it, for he must be very young, not more than a boy. - -When she got home her first step into the house was enough to drive -every thought of this description out of her mind. She was aware of the -change before she could ask--before she saw even a servant of whom to -inquire. The hall, all the rooms, were vacant. She could find nobody, -until, coming back after an ineffectual search, she met Jane coming away -from the sick-room, carrying various things that had been used there. -Jane shook her head in answer to Rosalind’s question. “Oh, very bad -again--worse than ever. No one can tell what has brought it on. Another -attack, worse than any he has had. I think, Miss Rosalind,” Jane said, -drawing close with a tremulous shrill whisper, “it was that dreadful -woman that had got in again the moment my poor lady’s back was turned.” - -“What dreadful woman?” - -“Oh, Russell, Miss Rosalind. My poor lady came out of the room for five -minutes-- I don’t think it was five minutes. She was faint with fatigue; -and all at once we heard a cry. Oh, it was not master, it was that -woman. There she was, lying at the room door in hysterics, or whatever -you call them. And the spasms came on again directly. I pushed her out -of my lady’s way; she may be lying there yet, for anything I know. This -time he will never get better, Miss Rosalind,” Jane said. - -“Oh, do not say so--do not say so,” the girl cried. He had not been a -kind father nor a generous master. But such was the awe of it, and the -quivering sympathy of human nature, that even the woman wept as Rosalind -threw herself upon her shoulder. The house was full of the atmosphere of -death. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Russell meant no harm to her master. In the curious confusion which one -passionate feeling brings into an undisciplined mind, she had even -something that might be called affection for Mr. Trevanion, as the -victim of the woman she hated. Something that she called regard for him -was the justification in her own mind of her furious antipathy to his -wife. And after all her excitement and suspense, to be compelled to -witness what seemed to her the triumph of Madam, the quieting down of -all suspicions, and her return, as more than ever indispensable, to the -bedside of her husband, drove the woman almost to madness. How she -lived through the week and executed her various duties, as in ordinary -times, she did not know. The children suffered more or less, but not so -much as might be supposed. For to Russell’s perverted perception the -children were hers more than their mother’s, and she loved them in her -way, while she hated Mrs. Trevanion. Indeed, the absorption of Madam in -the sick-room left them very much in Russell’s influence, and, on the -surface, more evidently attached to her than to the mother of whom they -saw so little. If they suffered from the excitement that disturbed her -temper, as well as other things, it was in a very modified degree, and -they were indulged and caressed by moments, as much as they were hustled -and scolded at others. The nursery-maids, indeed, found Russell -unbearable, and communicated to each other their intention to complain -as soon as Madam could be supposed able to listen to them; if not, to -give notice at once. But they did not tell for very much in the house, -and the nurse concealed successfully enough from all but them the -devouring excitement which was in her. It was the afternoon hour, when -nature is at its lowest, and when excitement and suspense are least -supportable, that Russell found her next opportunity. She had gone -down-stairs, seeking she knew not what--looking for something new--a -little relief to the strain of suspense, when she suddenly saw the door -of the sick-room open and Mrs. Trevanion come out. She did not stop to -ask herself what she was to gain by risking an outbreak of fury from her -master, and of blame and reproach from every side, by intruding upon the -invalid. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. She opened the -door without leaving herself time to think, and went in. - -Then terror seized her. Mr. Trevanion was propped up in his bed, a pair -of fiery, twinkling eyes, full of the suspicion and curiosity that were -natural to him, peering out of the skeleton head, which was ghastly with -illness and emaciation. Nothing escaped the fierce vitality of those -eyes. He saw the movement of the door, the sudden apparition of the -excited face, at first so eager and curious, then blanched with terror. -He was himself comparatively at ease, in a moment of vacancy in which -there was neither present suffering enough to occupy him, nor anything -else to amuse his restless soul. “Hallo!” he cried, as soon as he saw -her; “come in--come in. You have got something more to tell me? Faithful -woman--faithful to your master! Come in; there is just time before Madam -comes back to hear what you have to say.” - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the valet, who had taken Madam’s place, -“but the doctor’s orders is--” - -“What do I care for the doctor’s orders? Get out of the way and let -Russell in. Here, woman, you have got news for me. A faithful servant, -who won’t conceal from her master what he ought to know. Out, Jenkins, -and let the woman come in.” - -He raised himself up higher in his bed; the keen angles of his knees -seemed to rise to his chin. He waved impatiently his skeleton hands. The -valet made wild signs at the intruder. “Can’t you go away? You’ll kill -him!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. “Come in--come in!” shrieked the -skeleton in the bed, in all the excitement of opposition. Then it was -that Russell, terrified, helpless, distracted, gave that cry which -echoed through all the house, and brought Dr. Beaton rushing from one -side and Mrs. Trevanion from the other. The woman had fallen at the door -of the room in hysterics, as Jane said, a seizure for which all the -attendants, absorbed in a more immediate danger, felt the highest -contempt. She was pushed out of the way, to be succored by the maids, -who had been brought by the cry into the adjacent passage, in high -excitement to know what was going on. But Russell could not throw any -light upon what had happened even when she came to herself. She could -only sob and cry, with starts of nervous panic. She had done nothing, -and yet what had she done? She had not said a word to him, and yet-- It -was soon understood throughout all the house that Mr. Trevanion had -another of his attacks, and that Dr. Beaton did not think he could ever -rally again. - -The room where the patient lay was very large and open. It had once been -the billiard-room of the house, and had been prepared for him when it -was found no longer expedient that he should go up and down even the -easy, luxuriously carpeted stairs of Highcourt. There was one large -window filling almost one side of the room, without curtains or even -blind, and which was now thrown open to admit the air fully. The door, -too, was open, and the draught of fresh, cold, wintry air blowing -through made it more like a hillside than a room in a sheltered house. -Notwithstanding this, Mrs. Trevanion stood by the bed, waving a large -fan, to get more air into the panting and struggling lungs. On the other -side of the bed the doctor stood, with the bony wrist of the patient in -his warm, living grasp. It seemed to be Death in person with whom these -anxious ministrants were struggling, rather than a dying man. Other -figures flitted about in the background, Jane bringing, with noiseless -understanding, according to the signs the doctor made to her, the things -he wanted--now a spoonful of stimulant, now water to moisten his lips. -Dead silence reigned in the room; the wind blew through, fluttering a -bit of paper on the table; the slight beat of the fan kept a vibration -in the air. Into this terrible scene Rosalind stole trembling, and after -her her uncle; they shivered with the chill blast which swept over the -others unnoticed, and still more with the sight of the gasping and -struggle. Rosalind, unused to suffering, hid her face in her hands. She -could do nothing. Jane, who knew what was wanted, was of more use than -she. She stood timidly at the foot of the bed, now looking up for a -moment at what she could see of her dying father, now at the figure of -his wife against the light, never intermitting for a moment her -dreadful, monotonous exercise. Mr. Trevanion was seated almost upright -in the midst of his pillows, laboring in that last terrible struggle for -breath, for death, not for life. - -He had cried out at first in broken gasps for “The woman--the woman! -She’s got something--to tell me. Something more--to tell me. I’ll hear -it-- I’ll he-ar it-- I’ll know--everything!” he now shrieked, waving his -skeleton arms to keep them away, and struggling to rise. But these -efforts soon gave way to the helplessness of nature. His cries soon sank -into a hoarse moaning, his struggles to an occasional wave with his arms -towards the door, an appeal with his eyes to the doctor, who stood over -him inexorable. Every agitating movement had dropped before Rosalind -came in into the one grand effort for breath. That was all that was left -him in this world to struggle for. A man of so many passions, who had -got everything he had set his heart on in life: a little breath now, -which the November breeze, the winnowing of the air by the great fan, -every aid that could be used, could not bring to his panting lungs. Who -can describe the moment when nurses and watchers, and children and -lovers stand thus awed and silent, seeing the struggle turn into a fight -for death--not against it: feeling their own hearts turn, and their -prayers, to that which hitherto they have been resisting with all that -love and skill and patience can do? Nature is strong at such a time. Few -remember that the central figure has been an unkind husband, a careless -father; they remember only that he is going away from them into darkness -unfathomable, which they can never penetrate till they follow; that he -is theirs, but soon will be theirs no more. - -Then there occurred a little pause; for the first moment Dr. Beaton, -with a lifted finger and eyes suddenly turned upon the others, was about -to say, “All is over,” when a faintly renewed throb of the dying pulse -under his finger contradicted him. There was a dead calm for a few -moments, and then a faint rally. The feverish, eager eyes, starting out -of their sockets, seemed to calm, and glance with something like a dim -perception at John Trevanion and Rosalind, who approached. Rosalind, -entirely overcome by emotion and the terrible excitement of witnessing -such an event, dropped down on her knees by the bedside, where with a -slight flickering of the eyelids her father’s look seemed to follow her. -But in the act that look was arrested by the form of his wife, standing -always in the same position, waving the fan, sending wafts of air to -him, the last and only thing he now wanted. His eyes steadied then with -a certain meaning in them--a last gleam which gradually strengthened. He -looked at her fixedly, with what in a person less exhausted would have -been a wave of the hand towards her. Then there was a faint movement of -the lips. “John!” was it perhaps? or “Look!” Then the words became more -audible. “She’s--good nurse--faithful-- Air!--stands--hours--but--” -Then the look softened a little, the voice grew stronger; -“I’m--almost--sorry--” it said. - -For what--for what? In the intense stillness every feeble syllable was -heard. Only a minute or two more was left to make amends for the cruelty -of a life. The spectators held their breath. As for the wife, whose life -perhaps hung upon these syllables as much as his did, she never moved or -spoke, but went on fanning, fanning, supplying to him these last billows -of air for which he labored. Suddenly a change came over the dying face, -the eyes with all their old eagerness turned to the doctor, asking -pitifully--was it for help in the last miserable strain of nature, this -terrible effort to die? - -Mrs. Trevanion seemed turned into stone. She stood and fanned after all -need was over, solemnly winnowing the cold, penetrating air, which was -touched with the additional chill of night, in waves towards the still -lips which had done with that medium of life. To see her standing there, -as if she had fainted or become unconscious, yet stood at her post still -exercising that strange mechanical office, was the most terrible of all. -The doctor came round and took her by the arm, and took the fan out of -her hand. - -“There’s no more need for that,” he cried in a broken voice; “no more -need. Let us hope he is gone to fuller air than ours.” - -She was so strained and stupefied that she scarcely seemed to understand -this. “Hush!” she said, pulling it from his hands, “I tell you it does -him good.” She had recovered the fan again and begun to put it in -motion, when her eyes suddenly opened wide and fixed upon the dead face. -She looked round upon them all with a great solemnity, yet surprise. “My -husband is dead!” she said. - -“Grace,” said John Trevanion, “come away. You have done everything up to -the last moment. Come, now, and rest for the sake of the living. He -needs you no more.” - -He was himself very much moved. That which had been so long looked for, -so often delayed, came now with all the force of a surprise. Rosalind, -in an agony of tears, with her face hidden in the coverlid; Madam -standing there, tearless, solemn, with alas, he feared, still worse -before her than anything she divined; the young fatherless children -outside, the boy at school, the troubles to be gone through, all rushed -upon John Trevanion as he stood there. In a moment he who had been the -object of all thought had abdicated or been dethroned, and even his -brother thought of him no more. “For the sake of the living,” he -repeated, taking his sister-in-law by the arm. The touch of her was like -death; she was cold, frozen where she stood--penetrated by the wintry -chill and by the passing of that chiller presence which had gone by -her--but she did not resist. She suffered him to lead her away. She sank -into a chair in the hall, as if she had no longer any power of her own. -There she sat for a little while unmoving, and then cried out suddenly, -“For the living!--for which of the living? It would be better for the -living if you would bury me with him, he and I in one grave.” - -Her voice was almost harsh in this sudden cry. What was it--a lie, or -the truth? That a woman who had been so outraged and tormented should -wish to be buried with her husband seemed to John Trevanion a thing -impossible; and yet there was no falsehood in her face. He did not know -what to think or say. After a moment he went away and left her alone -with her--what?--her grief, her widowhood, her mourning--or was it only -a physical frame that could bear no more, the failure of nature, -altogether exhausted and worn out? - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -“The mother might have managed better, Rosie--why wasn’t I sent for? I’m -the eldest and the heir, and I ought to have been here. Poor old -papa--he would miss me, I know. He was fond of me because I was the -biggest. He used to tell me things, I ought to have been sent for. Why -didn’t she send for me, Rosalind?” - -“I have told you before, Rex. We did not know. When I went out in the -afternoon he was better and all going well; and when I came back-- I had -only been in the park--he was dying. Oh, you should be rather glad you -were not there. He took no notice of any one, and death is terrible. I -never understood what it was--” - -Reginald was silent for a little. He was sufficiently awestricken even -now by the sensation of the closed shutters and darkened house. “That -may be,” he said, in a softened voice, “but though you did not know, she -would know, Rosie. Do you think she wanted me not to be there? Russell -says--” - -“Don’t speak to me of that woman, Rex. She killed my father--” - -“Oh, come, Rosie, don’t talk nonsense, you know. How could she kill him? -She wanted to tell him something that apparently he ought to have known. -It was _that_ that killed him,” said the boy, with decision. - -They were sitting together in one of the dark rooms; Reginald in the -restless state of querulous and petulant unhappiness into which enforced -seclusion, darkness, and the cessation of all active occupation warp -natural sorrow in the mind of a young creature full of life and -movement; Rosalind in the partially soothed exhaustion of strong but -simple natural feeling. When she spoke of her father the tears came; but -yet already this great event was over, and her mind was besieged, by -moments, with thoughts of the new life to come. There were many things -to think of. Would everything go on as before under the familiar roof, -or would there be some change? And as for herself, what was to be done -with her? Would they try to take her from the side of her mother and -send her away among strangers? Mrs. Trevanion had retired after her -husband’s death to take the rest she wanted so much. For twenty-four -hours no one had seen her, and Jane had not allowed even Rosalind to -disturb the perfect quiet. Since then she had appeared again, but very -silent and self-absorbed. She was not less affectionate to Rosalind, but -seemed further away from her, as if something great and terrible divided -them. When even the children were taken to their mother they were -frightened and chilled by the dark room and the cap which she had put on -over her beautiful hair, and were glad when the visit was over and they -could escape to their nursery, where there was light, and many things to -play with. Sometimes children are the most sympathetic of all living -creatures; but when it is not so, they can be the most hard-hearted. In -this case they were impatient of the quiet, and for a long time past had -been little accustomed to be with their mother. When she took the two -little ones into her arms, they resigned themselves with looks half of -fright at each other, but were very glad, after they had hugged her, to -slip down and steal away. Sophy, who was too old for that, paced about -and turned over everything. “Are those what are called widow’s caps, -mamma? Shall you always wear them all your life, like old Widow Harvey, -or will it only be just for a little while?” In this way Sophy made -herself a comfort to her mother. The poor lady would turn her face to -the wall and weep, when they hurried away, pleased to get free of her. -And when Reginald came home, he had, after the first burst of childish -tears, taken something of the high tone of the head of the house, -resentful of not having been called in time, and disposed to resist the -authority of Uncle John, who was only a younger brother. Madam had not -got much comfort from her children, and between her and Rosalind there -was a distance which wrung the girl’s heart, but which she did not know -how to surmount. - -“Don’t you know,” Reginald said, “that there was something that Russell -had to tell him? She will not tell me what it was; but if it was her -duty to tell him, how could it be her fault?” - -“As soon as mamma is well enough to think of anything, Russell must go -away.” - -“You are so prejudiced, Rosalind. It does not matter to me; it is a long -time since I had anything to do with her,” said the boy, who was so -conscious of being the heir. “But for the sake of the little ones I -shall object to that.” - -“You!” cried Rosalind, with amazement. - -“You must remember,” said the boy, “that things are changed now. The -mother, of course, will have it all in her hands (I suppose) for a time. -But it is I who am the head. And when she knows that I object--” - -“Reginald,” his sister cried; “oh, how dare you speak so? What have you -to do with it?--a boy at school.” - -A flush came over his face. He was half ashamed of himself, yet uplifted -by his new honors. “I may be at school--and not--very old; but I am -Trevanion of Highcourt now. I am the head of the family, whatever Uncle -John may say.” - -Rosalind looked at her young brother for some time without saying -anything, with an air of surprise. She said at last with a sigh, “You -are very disappointing, Rex. I think most people are. One looks for -something so different. I thought you would be sorry for mamma and think -of her above everything, but it is of yourself you are thinking. -Trevanion of Highcourt! I thought people had the decency to wait at -least until-- Papa is in the house still,” she added, with an overflow -of tears. - -At this Reginald, who was not without heart, felt a sudden constriction -in his throat, and his eyes filled too. “I didn’t mean,” he said, -faltering, “to forget papa.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Mamma, -after all, won’t be so very much cut up, Rosie. He--bullied her awfully. -I wouldn’t say a word, but he did, you know. And so I thought, perhaps, -she might get over it--easier--” - -To this argument what could Rosalind reply? It was not a moment to say -it, yet it was true. She was confused between the claims of veracity and -that most natural superstition of the heart which is wounded by any -censure of the dead. She cried a little; she could not make any reply. -Mrs. Trevanion did not show any sign of taking it easily. The occupation -of her life was gone. That which had filled all her time and thoughts -had been removed entirely from her. If love had survived in her through -all that selfishness and cruelty could do to destroy it, such miracles -have been known. At all events, the change was one to which it was hard -to adapt herself, and the difficulty, the pain, the disruption of all -her habits, even, perhaps, the unaccustomed thrill of freedom, had such -a confusing and painful effect upon her as produced all the appearances -of grief. This was what Rosalind felt, wondering within herself whether, -after all she had borne, her mother would in reality “get over it -easier,” as Reginald said--a suggestion which plunged her into fresh -fields of unaccustomed thought when Reginald left her to make a -half-clandestine visit to the stables; for neither grief nor decorum -could quench in the boy’s heart the natural need of something to do. -Rosalind longed to go and throw herself at her mother’s feet, and claim -her old place as closest counsellor and confidante. But then she paused, -feeling that there was a natural barrier between them. If it should -prove true that her father’s death was a relief to his oppressed and -insulted wife, that was a secret which never, never could be breathed -in Rosalind’s ear. It seemed to the girl, in the absoluteness of her -youth, as if this must always stand between them, a bar to their -intercourse, which once had no barrier, no subjects that might not be -freely discussed. When she came to think of it, she remembered that her -father never had been touched upon as a subject of discussion between -them; but that, indeed, was only natural. For Rosalind had known no -other phase of fatherhood, and had grown up to believe that this was the -natural development. When men were strong and well, no doubt they were -more genial; but sick and suffering, what so natural as that wives and -daughters, and more especially wives, should be subject to all their -caprices? These were the conditions under which life had appeared to her -from her earliest consciousness, and she had never learned to criticise -them. She had been indignant at times and taken violently Mrs. -Trevanion’s side; but with the principle of the life Rosalind had never -quarrelled. She had known nothing else. Now, however, in the light of -these revelations, and the penetration of ordinary light into the -conditions of her own existence, she had begun to understand better. But -the awakening had been very painful. Life itself had stopped short and -its thread was broken. She could not tell in what way it was to be -pieced together again. - -Nothing could be more profoundly serious than the aspect of Uncle John -as he went and came. It is not cheerful work at any time to make all the -dismal arrangements, to provide for the clearing away of a life with all -its remains, and make room for the new on the top of the old. But -something more than this was in John Trevanion’s face. He was one of the -executors of his brother’s will; he and old Mr. Blake, the lawyer, who -had come over to Highcourt, and held what seemed a very agitating -consultation in the library, from which the old lawyer came forth -“looking as if he had been crying,” Sophy had reported to her sister. -“Do gentlemen ever cry?” that inquisitive young person had added. Mr. -Blake would see none of the family, would not take luncheon, or pause -for a moment after he had completed his business, but kept his dog-cart -standing at the door, and hurried off as soon as ever the conference was -over, which seemed to make John Trevanion’s countenance still more -solemn. As Reginald went out, Uncle John came into the room in which -Rosalind was sitting. There was about him, too, a little querulousness, -produced by the darkened windows and the atmosphere of the shut-up -house. - -“Where is that boy?” he said, with a little impatience. “Couldn’t you -keep him with you for once in a way, Rosalind? There is no keeping him -still or out of mischief. I did hope that you could have exercised a -little influence over him--at this moment at least.” - -“I wish I knew what to do, Uncle John. Unless I amuse him I cannot do -anything; and how am I to amuse him just now?” - -“My dear,” said Uncle John, in the causeless irritation of the moment, -“a woman must learn to do that whether it is possible or not. Better -that you should exert yourself a little than that he should drift among -the grooms, and amuse himself in that way. If this was a time to -philosophize, I might say that’s why women in general have such hard -lives, for we always expect the girls to keep the boys out of mischief, -without asking how they are to do it.” When he had said this, he came -and threw himself down wearily in a chair close to the little table at -which Rosalind was sitting. “Rosie,” he said, in a changed voice, “we -have got a terrible business before us. I don’t know how we are to get -out of it. My heart fails me when I think--” - -Here his voice stopped, and he threw himself forward upon the table, -leaning his elbow on it, and covering his face with his hand. - -“You mean-- Wednesday, Uncle John?” She put out her hand and slid it into -his, which rested on the table, or rather placed it, small and white, -upon the brown, clinched hand, with the veins standing out upon it, -with which he had almost struck the table. Wednesday was the day -appointed for the funeral, to which, as a matter of course, half the -county was coming. She pressed her uncle’s hand softly with hers. There -was a faint movement of surprise in her mind that he, so strong, so -capable of everything that had to be done, should feel it so. - -He gave a groan. “Of what comes after,” he said, “I can’t tell you what -a terrible thing we have to do. God help that poor woman! God forgive -her if she has done wrong, for she has a cruel punishment to bear.” - -“Mamma?” cried Rosalind, with blanched lips. - -He made no distinct reply, but sat there silent, with a sort of despair -in the pose of every limb. “God knows what we are all to do,” he said, -“for it will affect us all. You, poor child, you will have to judge for -yourself. I don’t mean to say or suggest anything. You will have to show -what mettle is in you, Rosalind; you as well as the rest.” - -“What is this terrible thing?” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, can’t you -tell me? You make me wretched; I fancy I don’t know what.” - -John Trevanion raised himself from the table. His face was quite -colorless. “Nothing that you can fear will be so bad as the reality,” he -said. “I cannot tell you now. It would be wrong to say anything till she -knows; but I am as weak as a child, Rosie. I want your hand to help me; -poor little thing, there is not much strength in it. That hour with old -Blake this morning has been too much both for him and me.” - -“Is it something in the will?” cried Rosalind, almost in a whisper. He -gave a little nod of assent, and got up and began to pace about the -room, as if he had lost power to control himself. - -“Charley Blake will not show. He is ashamed of his share in it; but I -suppose he could do nothing. It has made him ill, the father says. -There’s something--in Dante, is it?--about men being possessed by an -evil spirit after their real soul is gone. I wonder if that is true. It -would almost be a sort of relief to believe--” - -“Uncle John, you are not speaking of my father?” - -“Don’t ask any questions, Rosalind. Haven’t I told you I can’t answer -you? The fact is, I am distracted with one thing and another, all the -business coming upon me, and I can’t tell what I am saying. Where is -that boy?” - -“I think he has gone to the stables, Uncle John. It is hard upon him, -being always used to the open air. He doesn’t know what to do. There is -nothing to amuse him.” - -“Oh, to be sure, it is necessary that his young lordship should be -amused,” cried John, with something like a snarl of disgust. “Can’t you -manage to keep him in the house at least, with your feminine influence -that we hear so much of? Better anywhere than among those grooms, -hearing tales, perhaps-- Rosie, forgive me,” he cried, coming up to her -suddenly, stooping over her and kissing her, “if I snap and snarl even -at you, my dear; but I am altogether distracted, and don’t know what I -am saying or doing. Only, for God’s sake, dance or sing, or play cards, -or anything, it does not matter what you do, it will be a pious office; -only keep him in-doors, where he will hear no gossip; that would be the -last aggravation; or go and take him out for a walk, it will be better -for you both to get into the fresh air.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -Thus a whole week of darkness and depression passed away. - -Mr. Trevanion was a great personage in the county. It was fit that all -honor should be done him. All the greatest persons in the neighborhood -had to be convened to conduct him in due state to his other dwelling -among the marbles of the mausoleum which his fathers had built. It had -been necessary to arrange a day that would suit everybody, so that -nothing should be subtracted from this concluding grandeur; and -accordingly Highcourt remained, so to speak, in its suit of sables, with -blinds drawn down and shutters closed, as if darkness had veiled this -part of the earth. And, indeed, as it was the end of November, the face -of the sky was dim with clouds, and heavy mists gathered over the trees, -adding a deeper gloom to the shut-up house within. Life seemed to be -congealed in the silent rooms, except when broken by such an outburst of -impassioned feeling as that which John Trevanion had betrayed to -Rosalind. Perhaps this relieved him a little, but it put a burden of -vague misery upon her which her youth was quite unequal to bear. She -awaited the funeral with feverish excitement, and a terror to which she -could give no form. - -The servants in a house are the only gainers on such an occasion: they -derive a kind of pleasure from such a crisis of family fate. Blinds are -not necessarily drawn down in the housekeeper’s room, and the servants’ -hall is exempt from those heavier decorums which add a gloom -above-stairs; and there is a great deal to talk about in the tragedy -that is past and in the new arrangements that are to come, while all the -details of a grand funeral give more gratification to the humbler -members of the family, whose hearts are little affected, than they can -be expected to do to those more immediately concerned. There was a stir -of sombre pleasure throughout the house in preparation for the great -ceremony which was being talked of over all the county: though -Dorrington and his subordinates bore countenances more solemn than it is -possible to portray, even that solemnity was part of the gloomy -festival, and the current of life below was quickened by the many comers -and goers whose office it was to provide everything that could show -“respect” to the dead. Undertakers are not cheerful persons to think of, -but they brought with them a great deal of commotion which was far from -disagreeable, much eating and drinking, and additional activity -everywhere. New mourning liveries, dresses for the maids, a flutter of -newness and general acquisition lightened the bustle that was attendant -upon the greater event. Why should some score of people mourn because -one man of bad temper, seen perhaps once or twice a day by the majority, -by some never seen at all, had been removed from the midst of them? It -was not possible; and as everything that is out of the way is more or -less a pleasure to unembarrassed minds, there was a thrill of subdued -satisfaction, excitement, and general complacency, forming an unfit yet -not unnatural background to the gloom and anxiety above. The family -assembled at their sombre meals, where there was little conversation -kept up, and then dispersed to their rooms, to such occupations as they -could find, conversation seeming impossible. In any case a party at -table must either be cheerful--which could not be looked for--or be -silent, for such conversation as is natural while still the father lies -dead in the house is not to be maintained by a mixed company around a -common meal. - -The doctor, who, of course, was one of the party, did his best to -introduce a little variety into the monotonous meetings, but John -Trevanion’s sombre countenance at the foot of the table was enough to -have silenced any man, even had not the silence of Mrs. Trevanion and -the tendency of Rosalind to sudden tears been enough to keep him in -check. Dr. Beaton, however, was Reginald’s only comfort. They kept up a -running talk, which perhaps even to the others was grateful, as covering -the general gloom. Reginald had been much subdued by hearing that he was -to return to school as soon as the funeral was over. He had found very -little sympathy with his claims anywhere, and he was very glad to fall -back upon the doctor. Indeed, if Highcourt was to be so dull as this, -Rex could not but think school was far better. “Of course, I never -meant,” he said to his sister, “to give up school--a fellow can’t do -that. It looks as if he had been sent away. And now there’s those -tiresome examinations for everything, even the Guards.” - -“We shall be very dull for a long time,” said Rosalind. “How could it be -possible otherwise? But you will cheer us up when you come home for the -holidays; and, oh, Rex, you must always stand by mamma!” - -“By mamma!” Rex said, with some surprise. “Why, she will be very well -off--better off than any of us.” He had not any chivalrous feeling about -his mother. Such a feeling we all think should spring up spontaneously -in a boy’s bosom, especially if he has seen his mother ill-used and -oppressed; but, as a matter of fact, this assumption is by no means to -be depended on. A boy is at least as likely to copy a father who rails -against women, and against the one woman in particular who is his wife, -as to follow a vague general rule, which he has never seen put in -practice, of respect and tender reverence for woman. Reginald had known -his mother as the doer of everything, the endurer of everything. He had -never heard that she had any weakness to be considered, and had never -contemplated the idea that she should be put upon a pedestal and -worshipped; and if he did not hit by insight of nature upon some happy -medium between the two, it was not, perhaps, his fault. In the meantime, -at all events, no sentiment on the subject inspired his boyish bosom. - -Mrs. Trevanion, as these days went on, resumed gradually her former -habits, so far as was possible in view of the fact that all her married -life had been devoted to her husband’s service, and that she had dropped -one by one every pursuit that separated her from him. The day before the -funeral she came into the little morning-room in which Rosalind was -sitting, and drew a chair to the fire. “I had almost forgotten the -existence of this room,” she said. “So many things have dropped away -from me. I forget what I used to do. What used I to do, Rosalind, -before--” - -She looked up with a pitiful smile. And, indeed, it seemed to both of -them as if they had not sat quietly together, undisturbed, for years. - -“You have always done--everything for everybody--as long as I can -remember,” said Rosalind, with tender enthusiasm. - -She shook her head. “I don’t think it has come to much use. I have been -thinking over my life, over and over, these few days. It has not been -very successful, Rosalind. Something has always spoiled my best efforts, -I wonder if other people feel the same? Not you, my dear, you know -nothing about it; you must not answer with your protestations. Looking -back, I can see how it has always failed somehow. It is a curious thing -to stand still, so living as I am, and look back upon my life, and sum -it up as if it were past.” - -“It is because a chapter of it is past,” said Rosalind. “Oh, mamma, I do -not wonder! And you have stood at your post till the last moment; no -wonder you feel as if everything were over.” - -“Yes, I stood at my post: but perhaps another kind of woman would have -soothed him when I irritated him. Your father--was not kind to me, -Rosalind--” - -The girl rose and put her arms round Mrs. Trevanion’s neck and kissed -her. “No, mother,” she said. - -“He was not kind. And yet, now that he has gone out of my life I feel as -if nothing were left. People will think me a hypocrite. They will say I -am glad to be free. But it is not so, Rosalind, remember: man and wife, -even when they wound each other every day, cannot be nothing to each -other. My occupation is gone; I feel like a wreck cast upon the shore.” - -“Mother! how can you say that when we are all here, your children, who -can do nothing without you?” - -“My children--which children?” she said, with a wildness in her eyes as -if she did not know what she was saying; and then she returned to her -metaphor, like one thinking aloud; “like a wreck--that perhaps a fierce, -high sea may seize again, a high tide, and drag out upon the waves once -more. I wonder if I could beat and buffet those waves again as I used to -do, and fight for my life--” - -“Oh, mother, how could that ever be?--there is no sea here.” - -“No, no sea--one gets figurative when one is in great trouble--what your -father used to call theatrical, Rosalind. He said very sharp things--oh, -things that cut like a knife. But I was not without fault any more than -he; there is one matter in which I have not kept faith with him. I -should like to tell you, to see what you think. I did not quite keep -faith with him. I made him a promise, and-- I did not keep it. He had -some reason, though he did not know it, in all the angry things he -said.” - -Rosalind did not know what to reply; her heart beat high with -expectation. She took her stepmother’s hand between hers, and waited, -her very ears tingling, for the next word. - -“I have had no success in that,” Mrs. Trevanion said, in the same dreary -way, “in that no more than the rest. I have not done well with anything; -except,” she said, looking up with a faint smile and brightening of her -countenance, “you, Rosalind, my own dear, who are none of mine.” - -“I am all of yours, mother,” cried the girl; “don’t disown me, for I -shall always claim you--always! You are all the mother I have ever -known.” - -Then they held each other close for a moment, clinging one to the other. -Could grief have appeared more natural? The wife and daughter, in their -deep mourning, comforting each other, taking a little courage from their -union--yet how many strange, unknown elements were involved. But Mrs. -Trevanion said no more of the confidence she had seemed on the point of -giving. She rose shortly after and went away, saying she was restless -and could not do anything, or even stay still in one place. “I walk -about my room and frighten Jane, but that is all I can do.” - -“Stay here, mamma, with me, and walk about, or do what you please. I -understand you better than Jane.” - -Mrs. Trevanion shook her head; but whether it was to contradict that -last assertion or merely because she could not remain, it was impossible -to say. “To-morrow,” she said, “will be the end, and, perhaps, the -beginning. I feel as if all would be over to-morrow. After that, -Rosalind--” - -She went away with the words on her lips. “After to-morrow.” And to -Rosalind, too, it seemed as if her powers of endurance were nearly -ended, and to-morrow would fill up the sum. But then, what was that -further mysterious trouble which Uncle John feared? - -Mrs. Trevanion appeared again to dinner, which was a very brief meal, -but retired immediately; and the house was full of preparation for -to-morrow--every one having, or seeming to have, something to do. -Rosalind was left alone. She could not go and sit in the great, vacant -drawing-room, all dimly lighted, and looking as if some party of the -dead might be gathered about the vacant hearth; or in the hall, where -now and then some one of the busy, nameless train of to-morrow’s -ceremony would steal past. And it was too early to go to bed. She -wrapped herself in a great shawl, and, opening the glass door, stole out -into the night. The sweeping of the chill night air, the rustle of the -trees, the stars twinkling overhead, gave more companionship than the -silence and gloom within. She stood outside on the broad steps, leaning -against one of the pillars, till she got chilled through and through, -and began to think, with a kind of pleasure, of the glow of the fire. - -But as she turned to go in a great and terrible shock awaited her. She -had just come away from the pillar, which altogether obliterated her -slight, dark figure in its shadow and gave her a sort of invisibility, -when the glass door opened at a touch, and some one else came out. They -met face to face in the darkness. Rosalind uttered a stifled cry; the -other only by a pant of quickened breathing acknowledged the alarm. She -was gliding past noiselessly, when Rosalind, with sudden courage, caught -her by the cloak in which she was wrapped from head to foot. “Oh, not -to-night, oh, not to-night!” she said, with a voice of anguish; “for -God’s sake, mother, mother, not to-night!” - -There was a pause, and no reply but the quick breathing, as if the -passer-by had some hope of concealing herself. But then Madam spoke, in -a low, hurried tone--“I must go; I must! but not for any pleasure of -mine!” - -Rosalind clung to her cloak with a kind of desperation. “Another time,” -she said, “but not, oh, not to-night!” - -“Let me go. God bless my dear! I cannot help it. I do only what I must. -Rosalind, let me go,” she said. - -And next moment the dark figure glided swiftly, mysteriously, among the -bushes towards the park. Rosalind came in with despair in her heart. It -seemed to her that nothing more was left to expect, or hope for. Her -mother, the mistress of this sad house, the wife of the dead who still -lay there awaiting his burial. At no other moment perhaps would the -discovery have come upon her with such a pang; and yet at any moment -what could it be but misery? Jane was watching furtively on the stairs -to see that her mistress’s exit had been unnoticed. She was in the -secret, the confidante, the-- But Rosalind’s young soul knew no words; -her heart seemed to die within her. She could do or hope no more. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -All was dark; the stars twinkling ineffectually in the sky, so far off, -like spectators merely, or distant sentinels, not helpers; the trees in -all their winter nakedness rustling overhead, interrupting the vision of -these watchers; the grass soaked with rain and the heavy breath of -winter, slipping below the hurrying feet. There was no sound, but only a -sense of movement in the night as she passed. The most eager gaze could -scarcely have made out what it was--a shadow, the flitting of a cloud, a -thrill of motion among the dark shrubs and bushes, as if a faint breeze -had got up suddenly and was blowing by. At that hour there was very -little chance of meeting anybody in these damp and melancholy glades, -but the passenger avoided all open spaces until she had got to some -distance from the house. Even then, as she hurried across, her muffled -figure was quite unrecognizable. It was enough to raise a popular belief -that the park was haunted, but no more. She went on till she came to a -thick copse about half-way between the house and the village. Then -another figure made a step out of the thick cover to receive her, and -the two together withdrew entirely into its shade. - -What was said there, what passed, no one, even though skirting the copse -closely, could have told. The whisperers, hidden in its shade, were not -without an alarm from time to time; for the path to the village was not -far off, and sometimes a messenger from the house would pass at a -distance, whistling to keep his courage up, or talking loudly if there -were two, for the place was supposed to be ghostly. On this occasion the -faint movement among the bare branches would stop, and all be as still -as death. Then a faint thrill of sound, of human breathing, returned. -The conversation was rapid. “At last!” the other said; “do you know I -have waited here for hours these last nights?” - -“You knew it was impossible. How could I leave the house in such -circumstances? Even now I have outraged decency by coming. I have gone -against nature--” - -“Not for the first time,” was the answer, with a faint laugh. - -“If so, you should be the last to reproach me, for it was for you.” - -“Ah, for me! that is one way of putting it. Like all those spurious -sacrifices, if one examined a little deeper. You have had the best of -it, anyhow.” - -“All this,” she said, with a tone of despair, “has been said so often -before. It was not for this you insisted on my coming. What is it? Tell -me quickly, and let me go before I am found out. Found out! I am found -out already. I dare not ask myself what they think.” - -“Whatever they think you may be sure it is not the truth. Nobody could -guess at the truth. It is too unnatural, that I should be lurking here -in wretchedness, and you--” - -“But you are comfortable,” she said quickly. “Jane told me--” - -“Comfortable according to Jane’s ideas, which are different from mine. -What I want is to know what you are going to do; what is to become of -me? Will you do me justice now, at last?” - -“Oh, Edmund, what justice have you made possible? What can I do but -implore you to go? Are not you in danger every day?” - -“Less here than anywhere; though I understand there have been inquiries -made; the constable in the village shows a degree of interest--” - -“Edmund,” she cried, seizing him by the arm, “for God’s sake, go!” - -“And not bring shame upon you, Madam? Why should I mind? If I have gone -wrong, whose fault is it? You must take that responsibility one time or -other. And now that you are free--” - -“I cannot defy the law,” she said, with a miserable moan. “I can’t -deliver you from what you have done. God knows, though it had been to -choose between you and everything else, I would have done you justice, -as you say, as soon as it was possible. But to what use now? It would -only direct attention to you--bring the--” She shuddered, and said no -more. - -“The police, you mean,” he replied, with a careless laugh. “And no great -harm either, except to you; for of course all my antecedents would be -published. But there are such things as disguises, and I am clever at a -make-up. You might receive me, and no one would be the wiser. The cost -of a new outfit, a new name--you might choose me a nice one. Of all -places in the world, a gentleman’s house in the country is the last -where they would look for me. And then if there was any danger you could -swear I was--” - -“Oh, Edmund, Edmund, spare me! I cannot do this--to live in a deception -under my children’s eyes.” - -“Your children’s eyes!” he said, and laughed. The keen derision of his -tone went to her very heart. - -“I am used to hear everything said to me that can be said to a woman,” -she said quickly, “and if there was anything wanting you make it up. I -have had full measure, heaped up and running over. But there is no time -for argument now. All that might have been possible in other -circumstances; now there is no safety for you but in getting away. You -know this, surely, as well as I do. The anxiety you have kept me in it -is impossible to tell. I have been calmer since he is gone: it matters -less. But for your own sake--” - -The other voice said, with a change of tone, “I am lost anyhow. I shall -do nothing for my own sake--” - -“Oh, Edmund, Edmund, do not break my heart--at your age! If you will -only set your mind to better ways, everything can be put right again. As -soon as I know you are safe I will take it all in hand. I have not been -able hitherto, and now I am afraid to direct observation upon you. But -only go away; let me know you are safe: and you have my promise I will -pay anything, whatever they ask.” - -“Misprision of felony! They won’t do that; they know better. If there is -any paying,” he said, with his careless laugh, “it had much better be to -me.” - -“You shall be provided,” she said breathlessly, “if you will only think -of your own safety and go away.” - -“Are you sure, then, of having come into your fortune? Has the old -fellow shown so much confidence in you? All the better for me. Your -generosity in that way will always be fully appreciated. But I would not -trouble about Liverpool; they’re used to such losses. It does them no -harm, only makes up for the salaries they ought to pay their clerks, and -don’t.” - -“Don’t speak so lightly, Edmund. You cannot feel it. To make up to those -you have--injured--” - -“Robbed, if you like, but not injured. That’s quite another matter. I -don’t care a straw for this part of the business. But money,” he said, -“money is always welcome here.” - -A sigh which was almost a moan forced itself from her breast. “You shall -have what you want,” she said. “But, Edmund, for God’s sake, if you care -either for yourself or me, go away!” - -“You would do a great deal better to introduce me here. It would be -safer than Spain. And leave it to me to make my way. A good name--you -can take one out of the first novel that turns up--and a few good suits -of clothes. I might be a long-lost relative come to console you in your -distress. That would suit me admirably. I much prefer it to going away. -You should see how well I would fill the post of comforter--” - -“Don’t!” she cried; “don’t!” holding out her hands in an appeal for -mercy. - -“Why,” he said, “it is far the most feasible way, and the safest, if you -would but think. Who would look for an absconded clerk at Highcourt, in -the midst of family mourning and all the rest of it? And I have views of -my own-- Come, think it over. In former times I allow it would have been -impossible, but now you are free.” - -“I will not,” she said, suddenly raising her head. “I have done much, -but there are some things that are too much. Understand me, I will not. -In no conceivable circumstances, whatever may happen. Rather will I -leave you to your fate.” - -“What!” he said, “and bring shame and ruin on yourself?” - -“I do not care. I am desperate. Much, much would I do to make up for my -neglect of you, if you can call it neglect; but not this. Listen! I will -not do it. It is not to be mentioned again. I will make any sacrifice, -except of truth--except of truth!” - -“Of truth!” he said, with a sneer; but then was silent, evidently -convinced by her tone. He added, after a time, “It is all your fault. -What was to be expected? I have never had a chance. It is just that you -should bear the brunt, for it is your fault.” - -“I acknowledge it,” she said; “I have failed in everything; and whatever -I can do to atone I will do. Edmund, oh, listen! Go away. You are not -safe here. You risk everything, even my power to help you. You must go, -you must go,” she added, seizing him firmly by the arm in her vehemence; -“there is no alternative. You shall have money, but go, go! Promise me -that you will go.” - -“If you use force--” he said, freeing himself roughly from her grasp. - -“Force! what force have I against you? It is you who force me to come -here and risk everything. If I am discovered, God help me! on the eve of -my husband’s funeral, how am I to have the means of doing anything for -you? You will understand that. You shall have the money; but promise me -to go.” - -“You are very vehement,” he said. Then, after another pause, “That is -strong, I allow. Bring me the money to-morrow night, and we shall see.” - -“I will send Jane.” - -“I don’t want Jane. Bring it yourself, or there is not another word to -be said.” - -Mrs. Trevanion got back, as she thought, unseen to the house. There was -nobody in the hall when she opened noiselessly the glass door, and flung -down the cloak she had worn among the wraps that were always there. She -went up-stairs with her usual stately step; but when she had safely -reached the shelter of her own room, she fell into the arms of the -anxious Jane, who had been waiting in miserable suspense, fearing -discovery in every sound. She did not faint. Nerves strong and highly -braced to all conclusions, and a brain yet more vigorous, still kept -her vitality unimpaired, and no merciful cloud came over her mind to -soften what she had to bear--there are some to whom unconsciousness is a -thing never accorded, scarcely even in sleep. But for a moment she lay -upon the shoulder of her faithful servant, getting some strength from -the contact of heart with heart. Jane knew everything; she required no -explanation. She held her mistress close, supporting her in arms that -had never failed her, giving the strength of two to the one who was in -deadly peril. After a time Mrs. Trevanion roused herself. She sat down -shivering in the chair which Jane placed for her before the fire. Warmth -has a soothing effect upon misery. There was a sort of restoration in -it, and possibility of calm. She told all that had passed to the -faithful woman who had stood by her in all the passages of her life--her -confidante, her go-between: other and worse names, if worse can be, had -been ere now expended upon Jane. - -“Once more,” Madam said, with a long sigh, “once more; and then it is to -be over, or so he says, at least. On the night of my husband’s funeral -day; on the night before-- What could any one think of me, if it were -known? And how can I tell that it is not known?” - -“Oh, dear Madam, let us hope for the best,” said Jane. “Besides, who has -any right to find fault now? Whatever you choose to do, you have a right -to do it. The only one that had any right to complain--” - -“And the only one,” said Mrs. Trevanion, with sudden energy, “who had no -right to complain.” Then she sank back again into her chair. “I care -nothing for other people,” she said; “it is myself. I feel the misery of -it in myself. This night, of all others, to expose myself--and -to-morrow. I think my punishment is more than any woman should have to -bear.” - -“Oh, Madam, do not think of it as a punishment.” - -“As what, then--a duty? But one implies the other. God help us! If I -could but hope that after this all would be over, at least for the -time. I have always been afraid of to-morrow; I cannot tell why. Not -because of the grave and the ceremony; but with a kind of dread as if -there were something in it unforeseen, something new. Perhaps it is this -last meeting which has been weighing upon me--this last meeting, which -will be a parting, too, perhaps forever--” - -She paused for a moment, and then burst forth into tears. “I ought to be -thankful. That is the only thing to be desired. But when I think of all -that might have been, and of what is--of my life all gone between the -one who has been my tyrant, and the other--the other against whom I have -sinned. And that one has died in anger, and the other--oh, the other!” - -It was to Jane’s faithful bosom that she turned again to stifle the sobs -which would not be restrained. Jane stood supporting her, weeping -silently, patting with pathetic helplessness her mistress’s shoulder. -“Oh, Madam,” she said, “who can tell? his heart may be touched at the -last.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -Next day there was a great concourse of people at Highcourt, disturbing -the echoes which had lain so silent during that week of gloom. Carriages -with the finest blazons, quartered and coronetted; men of the greatest -importance, peers, and those commoners who hold their heads higher than -any recent peers--M.P.’s; the lord-lieutenant and his deputy, everything -that was noted and eminent in those parts. The procession was endless, -sweeping through the park towards the fine old thirteenth-century church -which made the village notable, and in which the Trevanion chantry, -though a century later in date, was the finest part; though the dark -opening in the vault, canopied over with fine sculptured work, and all -that pious art could do to make the last resting-place beautiful, opened -black as any common grave for the passage of the departed. There was an -unusual band of clergy gathered in their white robes to do honor to the -man who had given half of them their livings, and all the villagers, and -various visitors from the neighboring town, shopkeepers who had rejoiced -in his patronage, and small gentry to whom Madam had given brevet rank -by occasional notice. Before the procession approached, a little group -of ladies, in crape from head to foot and closely veiled, were led in by -the curate reverently through a side door. A murmur ran through the -gathering crowd that it was Madam herself who walked first, with her -head bowed, not seeing or desiring the curate’s anxiously offered arm. -The village had heard a rumor of trouble at the great house, and -something about Madam, which had made the elders shake their heads, and -remind each other that she was a foreigner and not of these parts, which -accounted for anything that might be wrong; while the strangers, who had -also heard that there was a something, craned their necks to see her -through the old ironwork of the chancel-screen, behind which the ladies -were introduced. Many people paused in the midst of the service, and -dropped their prayer-books to gaze again, and wonder what she was -thinking now, if she had indeed, as people said, been guilty. How must -she feel when she heard the deep tones of the priest, and the organ -pealing out its Amens. Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. Had he -forgiven her before he died? Was she broken down with remorse and shame, -or was she rejoicing in her heart, behind her crape veil, in her -freedom? It must not be supposed, because of this general curiosity, -that Madam Trevanion had lost her place in the world, or would not have -the cards of the county showered upon her, with inquiries after her -health from all quarters; but only that there was “a something” which -gave piquancy, such as does not usually belong to such a melancholy -ceremonial, to the great function of the day. The most of the audience, -in fact, sympathized entirely with Madam, and made remarks as to the -character of the man so imposingly ushered into the realm of the dead, -which did not fit in well with the funeral service. There were many who -scoffed at the hymn which was sung by the choirs of the adjacent -parishes, all in the late Mr. Trevanion’s gift, and which was very, -perhaps unduly, favorable to the “dear saint” thus tenderly dismissed. -He had not been a dear saint; perhaps, in such a case, the well-known -deprecation of _trop de zèle_ is specially appropriate. It made the -scoffer blaspheme to hear so many beautiful qualities attributed to Mr. -Trevanion. But perhaps it is best to err on the side of kindness. It -was, at all events, a grand funeral. No man could have desired more. - -The third lady who accompanied Mrs. Trevanion and her daughter was the -Aunt Sophy to whom there had been some question of sending Rosalind. She -was the only surviving sister of Mr. Trevanion, Mrs. Lennox, a wealthy -widow, without any children, to whom the Highcourt family were -especially dear. She was the softest and most good-natured person who -had ever borne the name of Trevanion. It was supposed to be from her -mother, whom the Trevanions in general had worried into her grave at a -very early age, that Aunt Sophy got a character so unlike the rest of -the family. But worrying had not been successful in the daughter’s case; -or perhaps it was her early escape by her marriage that saved her. She -was so apt to agree with the last person who spoke, that her opinion was -not prized as it might have been by her connections generally; but -everybody was confident in her kindness. She had arrived only the -morning of the funeral, having come from the sickbed of a friend whom -she was nursing, and to whom she considered it very necessary that she -should get back; but it was quite possible that, being persuaded her -sister-in-law or Rosalind had more need of her, she might remain at -Highcourt, notwithstanding that it was so indispensable that she should -leave that afternoon, for the rest of the year. - -The shutters had been all opened, the blinds raised, the windows let in -the light, the great doors stood wide when they came back. The house was -no longer the house of the dead, but the house of the living. In Mr. -Trevanion’s room, that chamber of state, the curtains were all pulled -down already, the furniture turned topsy-turvy, the housemaids in -possession. In proportion as the solemnity of the former mood had been, -so was the anxiety now to clear away everything that belonged to death. -The children, in their black frocks, came to meet their mother, half -reluctant, half eager. The incident of papa’s death was worn out to them -long ago, and they were anxious to be released, and to see something -new. Here Aunt Sophy was of the greatest assistance. She cried over -them, and smiled, and admired their new dresses, and cried again, and -bade them be good and not spoil their clothes, and be a comfort to their -dear mamma. The ladies kept together in the little morning-room till -everybody was gone. It was very quiet there, out of the bustle; and they -had been told that there was no need for their presence in the library -where the gentlemen were, John Trevanion with the Messrs. Blake. There -was no need, indeed, for any formal reading of the will. There could be -little uncertainty about a man’s will whose estates were entailed, and -who had a young family to provide for. Nobody had any doubt that he -would deal justly with his children, and the will was quite safe in the -hands of the executors. Refreshments were taken to them in the library, -and the ladies shared the children’s simple dinner. It was all very -serious, very quiet, but there could be no doubt that the weight and -oppression were partially withdrawn. - -The short afternoon had begun to darken, and Aunt Sophy had already -asked if it were not nearly time for tea, when Dorrington, the butler, -knocked at the door, and with a very solemn countenance delivered “Mr. -John Trevanion’s compliments, and would Madam be so good as step into -the library for a few minutes?” - -The few minutes were Dorrington’s addition. The look of the gentlemen -seated at the table close together, like criminals awaiting execution, -and fearing that every moment would bring the headsman, had alarmed -Dorrington. He was favorable to his mistress on the whole; and he -thought this summons meant something. So unconsciously he softened his -message. A few minutes had a reassuring sound. They all looked up at him -as the message was given. - -“They will want to consult you about something,” said Aunt Sophy; “you -have managed everything for so long. He said only a few minutes. Make -haste, dear, and we will wait for you for tea.” - -“Shall I go with you, mamma?” said Rosalind, rising and following to the -door. - -Mrs. Trevanion hesitated for a moment. “Why should I be so foolish?” she -said, with a faint smile. “I would say yes, come; but that it is too -silly.” - -“I will come, mamma.” - -“No; it is absolute folly. As if I were a novice! Make your aunt -comfortable, dear, and don’t let her wait for me.” She was going away -when something in Rosalind’s face attracted her notice. The girl’s eyes -were intent upon her with a pity and terror in them that was -indescribable. Mrs. Trevanion made a step back again and kissed her. -“You must not be frightened, Rosalind. There can be nothing bad enough -for that; but don’t let your aunt wait,” she said; and closing the door -quickly behind her, she left the peaceful protection of the women with -whom she was safe, and went to meet her fate. - -The library was naturally a dark room, heavy with books, with solemn -curtains and sad-colored furniture. The three large windows were like -shaded lines of vertical light in the breadth of the gloom. On the table -some candles had been lighted, and flared with a sort of wild waving -when the door was opened. Lighted up by them, against the dark -background, were the pale faces of John Trevanion and old Mr. Blake. -Both had a look of agitation, and even alarm, as if they were afraid of -her. Behind them, only half visible, was the doctor, leaning against a -corner of the mantelpiece, with his face hidden by his hand. John -Trevanion rose without a word, and placed a chair for his sister-in-law -close to where they sat. He drew nearer to his colleague when he sat -down again, as if for protection, which, however, Mr. Blake, a most -respectable, unheroic person, with his countenance like ashes, and -looking as if he had seen a ghost, was very little qualified to give. - -“My dear Grace,” said John, clearing his voice, which trembled, “we have -taken the liberty to ask you to come here, instead of going to you.” - -“I am very glad to come if you want me, John,” she said, simply, with a -frankness and ease which confused them more and more. - -“Because,” he went on, clearing his throat again, endeavoring to control -his voice, “because we have something--very painful to say.” - -“Very painful; more painful than anything I ever had to do with in all -my life,” Mr. Blake added, in a husky voice. - -She looked from one to another, questioning their faces, though neither -of them would meet her eyes. The bitterness of death had passed from -Mrs. Trevanion’s mind. The presentiment that had hung so heavily about -her had blown away like a cloud. Sitting by the fire in the innocent -company of Sophy, with Rosalind by her, the darkness had seemed to roll -together and pass away. But when she looked from one of these men to the -other, it came back and enveloped her like a shroud. She said “Yes?” -quickly, her breath failing, and looked at them, who could not meet her -eyes. - -“It is so,” said John. “We must not mince our words. Whatever may have -passed between you two, whatever he may have heard or found out, we can -say nothing less than that it is most unjust and cruel.” - -“Savage, barbarous! I should never have thought it, I should have -refused to do it,” his colleague cried, in his high-pitched voice. - -“But we have no alternative. We must carry his will out, and we are -bound to let you know without delay.” - -“This delay is already too much,” she said hurriedly. “Is it something -in my husband’s will? Why try to frighten me? Tell me at once.” - -“God knows we are not trying to frighten you. Nothing so terrible could -occur to your mind, or any one’s, Grace,” said John Trevanion, with a -nervous quivering of his voice. “The executioner used to ask pardon of -those he was about to-- I think I am going to give you your sentence of -death.” - -“Then I give you--my pardon--freely. What is it? Do not torture me any -longer,” she said. - -He thrust away his chair from the table, and covered his face with his -hands. “Tell her, Blake; I cannot,” he cried. - -Then there ensued a silence like death; no one seemed to breathe; when -suddenly the high-pitched, shrill voice of the old lawyer came out like -something visible, mingled with the flaring of the candles and the -darkness all around. - -“I will spare you the legal language,” said Mr. Blake. “It is this. The -children are all provided for, as is natural and fit, but with this -proviso--that their mother shall be at once and entirely separated from -them. If Mrs. Trevanion remains with them, or takes any one of them to -be with her, they are totally disinherited, and their money is left to -various hospitals and charities. Either Mrs. Trevanion must leave them -at once, and give up all communication with them, or they lose -everything. That is in brief what we have to say.” - -She sat listening without changing her position, with a dimness of -confusion and amaze coming over her clear gaze. The intimation was so -bewildering, so astounding, that her faculties failed to grasp it. Then -she said, “To leave them--my children? To be separated from my -children?” with a shrill tone of inquiry, rising into a sort of -breathless cry. - -John Trevanion took his hands from his face, and looked at her with a -look which brought more certainty than words. The old lawyer clasped -his hands upon the papers before him, without lifting his eyes, and -mournfully nodded again and again his gray head. But she waited for an -answer. She could not let herself believe it. “It is not _that_? My head -is going round. I don’t understand the meaning of words. It is not -_that_?” - -And then she rose up suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together, -and cried out, “My God!” The men rose too, as with one impulse; and John -Trevanion called out loudly to the doctor, who hurried to her. She put -them away with a motion of her hands. “The doctor? What can the doctor -do for me?” she cried, with the scorn of despair. “Go, go, go! I need no -support.” The men had come close to her on either side, with that -confused idea that the victim must faint or fall, or sustain some -physical convulsion, which men naturally entertain in respect to a -woman. She made a motion, as if to keep them away, with her arms, and -stood there in the midst, her pale face, with the white surroundings of -her distinctive dress, clearly defined against the other dusk and -troubled countenances. They thought the moments of suspense endless, but -to her they were imperceptible. Not all the wisest counsellors in the -world could have helped her in that effort of desperation which her -lonely soul was making to understand. There was so much that no one knew -but herself. Her mind went through all the details of a history -unthought of. She had to put together and follow the thread of events, -and gather up a hundred indications which now came all flashing about -her like marsh-lights, leading her swift thoughts here and there, -through the hitherto undivined workings of her husband’s mind, and -ripening of fate. Thus it was that she came slowly to perceive what it -meant, and all that it meant, which nature, even when perceiving the -sense of the words, had refused to believe. When she spoke they all -started with a sort of panic and individual alarm, as if something might -be coming which would be too terrible to listen to. But what she said -had a strange composure, which was a relief, yet almost a horror, to -them. “Will you tell me,” she asked, “exactly what it is, again?” - -Old Mr. Blake sat down again at the table, fumbled for his spectacles, -unfolded his papers. Meanwhile she stood and waited, with the others -behind her, and listened without moving while he read, this time in its -legal phraseology, the terrible sentence. She drew a long breath when it -was over. This time there was no amaze or confusion. The words were like -fire in her brain. - -“Now I begin to understand. I suppose,” she said, “that there is nothing -but public resistance, and perhaps bringing it before a court of law, -that could annul _that_? Oh, do not fear. I will not try; but is that -the only way?” - -The old lawyer shook his head. “Not even that. He had the right; and -though he has used it as no man should have used it, still, it is done, -and cannot be undone.” - -“Then there is no help for me,” she said. She was perfectly quiet, -without a tear or sob or struggle. “No help for me,” she repeated, with -a wan little smile about her mouth. “After seventeen years! He had the -right, do you say? Oh, how strange a right! when I have been his wife -for seventeen years.” Then she added, “Is it stipulated when I am to go? -Is there any time given to prepare? And have you told my boy?” - -“Not a word has been said, Grace--to any one,” John Trevanion said. - -“Ah, I did not think of that. What is he to be told? A boy of that age. -He will think his mother is-- John, God help me! what will you say to my -boy?” - -“God help us all!” cried the strong man, entirely overcome. “Grace, I do -not know.” - -“The others are too young,” she said; “and Rosalind-- Rosalind will trust -me; but Rex--it will be better to tell him the simple truth, that it is -his father’s will; and perhaps when he is a man he will understand.” She -said this with a steady voice, like some queen making her last -dispositions in full health and force before her execution--living, yet -dying. Then there ensued another silence, which no one ventured to -break, during which the doomed woman went back into her separate world -of thought. She recovered herself after a moment, and, looking round, -with once more that faint smile, asked, “Is there anything else I ought -to hear?” - -“There is this, Mrs. Trevanion,” said old Blake. “One thing is just -among so much-- What was settled on you is untouched. You have a right -to--” - -She threw her head high with an indignant motion, and turned away; but -after she had made a few steps towards the door, paused and came back. -“Look,” she said, “you gentlemen; here is something that is beyond you, -which a woman has to bear. I must accept this humiliation, too. I cannot -dig, and to beg I am ashamed.” She looked at them with a bitter dew in -her eyes, not tears. “I must take his money and be thankful. God help -me!” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -Mrs. Trevanion appeared at dinner as usual, coming into the drawing-room -at the last moment, to the great surprise of the gentlemen, who stared -and started as if at a ghost as she came in, their concealed alarm and -astonishment forming a strange contrast to the absolute calm of Mrs. -Lennox, the slight boyish impatience of Reginald at being kept waiting -for dinner, and the evident relief of Rosalind, who had been questioning -them all with anxious eyes. Madam was very pale; but she smiled and made -a brief apology. She took old Mr. Blake’s arm to go in to dinner, who, -though he was a man who had seen a great deal in his life, shook “like -as a leaf,” he said afterwards; but her arm was as steady as a rock, and -supported him. The doctor said to her under his breath as they sat down, -“You are doing too much. Remember, endurance is not boundless.” “Is it -not?” she said aloud, looking at him with a smile. He was a man of -composed and robust mind, but he ate no dinner that day. The dinner was -indeed a farce for most of the company. Aunt Sophy, indeed, though with -a shake of her head, and a sighing remark now and then, took full -advantage of her meal, and Reginald cleared off everything that was set -before him with the facility of his age; but the others made such -attempts as they could to deceive the calm but keen penetration of -Dorrington, who saw through all their pretences, and having served many -meals in many houses after a funeral, knew that “something” must be -“up,” more than Mr. Trevanion’s death, to account for the absence of -appetite. There was not much conversation either. Aunt Sophy, indeed, to -the relief of every one, took the position of spokeswoman. “I would not -have troubled to come down-stairs this evening, Grace,” she said. “You -always did too much. I am sure all the watching and nursing you have had -would have killed ten ordinary people; but she never spared herself, did -she, doctor? Well, it is a satisfaction now. You must feel that you -neglected nothing, and that everything that could be thought of was -done--everything! I am sure you and I, John, can bear witness to that, -that a more devoted nurse no man ever had. Poor Reginald,” she added, -putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “if he did not always seem so -grateful as he ought, you may be sure, dear, it was his illness that was -to blame, not his heart.” No one dared to make any reply to this, till -Madam herself said, after a pause, her voice sounding distinct through a -hushed atmosphere of attention, “All that is over and forgotten; there -is no blame.” - -“Yes, my dear,” said innocent Sophy; “that is a most natural and -beautiful sentiment for you. But John and I can never forget how patient -you were. A king could not have been better taken care of.” - -“Everybody,” said the doctor, with fervor, “knows that. I have never -known such nursing;” and in the satisfaction of saying this he managed -to dispose of the chicken on his plate. His very consumption of it was -to Madam’s credit. He could not have swallowed a morsel, but for having -had the opportunity for this ascription of praise. - -“And if I were you,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I would not worry myself about -taking up everything so soon again. I am sure you must want a thorough -rest. I wish, indeed, you would just make up your mind to come home with -me, for a change would do you good. I said to poor dear Maria Heathcote, -when I left her this morning, ‘My dear, you may expect me confidently -to-night; unless my poor dear sister-in-law wants me. But dear Grace -has, of course, the first claim upon me,’ I said. And if I were you I -would not try my strength too much. You should have stayed in your room -to-night, and have had a tray with something light and trifling. You -don’t eat a morsel,” Aunt Sophy said, with true regret. “And Rosalind -and I would have come up-stairs and sat with you. I have more experience -than you have in trouble,” added the good lady with a sigh (who, indeed, -“had buried two dear husbands,” as she said), “and that has always been -my experience. You must not do too much at first. To-morrow is always a -new day.” - -“To-morrow,” Mrs. Trevanion said, “there will be many things to think -of.” She lingered on the word a little, with a tremulousness which all -the men felt as if it had been a knife going into their hearts. Her -voice got more steady as she went on. “You must go back to school on -Monday, Rex,” she said; “that will be best. You must not lose any time -now, but be a man as soon as you can, for all our sakes.” - -“Oh, as for being a man,” said Reginald, “that doesn’t just depend on -age, mother. My tutor would rather have me for his captain than Smith, -who is nineteen. He said so. It depends upon a fellow’s character.” - -“That is what I think too,” she said, with a smile upon her boy. “And, -Sophy, if you will take Rosalind and your godchild instead of me, I -think it will do them good. I--you may suppose I have a great many -things to think of.” - -“Leave them, dear, till you are stronger, that is my advice; and I know -more about trouble than you do,” Mrs. Lennox said. - -Mrs. Trevanion gave a glance around her. There was a faint smile upon -her face. The three gentlemen sitting by did not know even that she -looked at them, but they felt each like a culprit, guilty and -responsible. Her eyes seemed to appeal speechlessly to earth and heaven, -yet with an almost humorous consciousness of good Mrs. Lennox’s -superiority in experience. “I should like Rosalind and Sophy to go with -you for a change,” she said, quietly. “The little ones will be best at -home. Russell is not good for Sophy, Rosalind; but for the little ones -it does not matter so much. She is very kind and careful of them. That -covers a multitude of sins. I think, for their sakes, she may stay.” - -“I would not keep her, mamma. She is dangerous; she is wicked.” - -“What do you mean by that, Rose? Russell! I should as soon think of -mamma going as of Russell going,” cried Rex. “She says mamma hates her, -but I say--” - -“I wonder,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that you do not find yourself above -nursery gossip, Rex, at your age. Never mind, it is a matter to be -talked of afterwards. You are not going away immediately, John?” - -“Not as long as--” He paused and looked at her wistfully, with eyes that -said a thousand things. “As long as I can be of use,” he said. - -“As long as-- I think I know what you mean,” Mrs. Trevanion said. - -The conversation was full of these _sous-entendus_. Except Mrs. Lennox -and Rex, there was a sense of mystery and uncertainty in all the party. -Rosalind followed every speaker with her eyes, inquiring what they could -mean. Mrs. Trevanion was the most composed of the company, though -meanings were found afterwards in every word she said. The servants had -gone from the room while the latter part of this conversation went on. -After a little while she rose, and all of them with her. She called -Reginald, who followed reluctantly, feeling that he was much too -important a person to retire with the ladies. As she went out, leaning -upon his arm, she waved her hand to the other gentlemen. “Good-night,” -she said. “I don’t think I am equal to the drawing-room to-night.” - -“What do you want with me, mother? It isn’t right, it isn’t, indeed, to -call me away like a child. I’m not a child; and I ought to be there to -hear what they are going to settle. Don’t you see, mamma, it’s my -concern?” - -“You can go back presently, Rex; yes, my boy, it is your concern. I want -you to think so, dear. And the little ones are your concern. Being the -head of a house means a great deal. It means thinking of everything, -taking care of the brothers and sisters, not only being a person of -importance, Rex--” - -“I know, I know. If this is all you wanted to say--” - -“Almost all. That you must think of your duties, dear. It is unfortunate -for you, oh, very unfortunate, to be left so young; but your Uncle John -will be your true friend.” - -“Well, that don’t matter much. Oh, I dare say he will be good enough. -Then you know, mammy,” said the boy condescendingly, giving her a -hurried kiss, and eager to get away, “when there’s anything very hard I -can come and talk it over with you.” - -She did not make any reply, but kissed him, holding his reluctant form -close to her. He did not like to be hugged, and he wanted to be back -among the men. “One moment,” she said. “Promise me you will be very good -to the little ones, Rex.” - -“Why, of course, mother,” said the boy; “you didn’t think I would beat -them, did you? Good-night.” - -“Good-bye, my own boy.” He had darted from her almost before she could -withdraw her arm. She paused a moment to draw breath, and then followed -to the door of the drawing-room, where the other ladies were gone. “I -think, Sophy,” she said, “I will take your advice and go to my room; and -you must arrange with Rosalind to take her home with you, and Sophy -too.” - -“That I will, with all my heart; and I don’t despair of getting you to -come. Good-night, dear. Should you like me to come and sit with you a -little when you have got to bed?” - -“Not to-night,” said Mrs. Trevanion. “I am tired out. Good-night, -Rosalind. God bless you, my darling!” She held the girl in her arms, and -drew her towards the door. “I can give you no explanation about last -night, and you will hear other things. Think of me as kindly as you can, -my own, that are none of mine,” she said, bending over her with her eyes -full of tears. - -“Mother,” said the girl, flinging herself into Mrs. Trevanion’s arms -with enthusiasm, “you can do no wrong.” - -“God bless you, my own dear!” - -This parting seemed sufficiently justified by the circumstances. The -funeral day! Could it be otherwise than that their nerves were highly -strung, and words of love and mutual support, which might have seemed -exaggerated at other times, should now have seemed natural? Rosalind, -with her heart bursting, went back to her aunt’s side, and sat down and -listened to her placid talk. She would rather have been with her -suffering mother, but for that worn-out woman there was nothing so good -as rest. - -Mrs. Trevanion went back to the nursery, where her little children were -fast asleep in their cots, and Sophy preparing for bed. Sophy was still -grumbling over the fact that she had not been allowed to go down to -dessert. “Why shouldn’t I go down?” she cried, sitting on the floor, -taking off her shoes. “Oh, here’s mamma! What difference could it have -made? Grown-up people are nasty and cruel. I should not have done any -harm going down-stairs. Reggie is dining down-stairs. He is always the -one that is petted, because he is a boy, though he is only five years -older than me.” - -“Hush, Miss Sophy. It was your mamma’s doing, and mammas are always -right.” - -“You don’t think so, Russell. Oh, I don’t want to kiss you, mamma. It -was so unkind, and Reggie going on Monday; and I have not been down to -dessert--not for a week.” - -“But I must kiss you, Sophy,” the mother said. “You are going away with -your aunt and Rosalind, on a visit. Is not that better than coming down -to dessert?” - -“Oh, mamma!” The child jumped up with one shoe on, and threw herself -against her mother’s breast. “Oh, I am so glad. Aunt Sophy lets us do -whatever we please.” She gave a careless kiss in response to Mrs. -Trevanion’s embrace. “I should like to stay there forever,” Sophy said. - -There was a smile on the mother’s face as she withdrew it, as there had -been a smile of strange wonder and wistfulness when she took leave of -Rex. The little ones were asleep. She went and stood for a moment -between the two white cots. Then all was done; and the hour had come to -which, without knowing what awaited her, she had looked with so much -terror on the previous night. - -A dark night, with sudden blasts of rain, and a sighing wind which -moaned about the house, and gave notes of warning of the dreary wintry -weather to come. As Mrs. Lennox and Rosalind sat silent over the fire, -there suddenly seemed to come in and pervade the luxurious house a -blast, as if the night had entered bodily, a great draught of fresh, -cold, odorous, rainy air, charged with the breath of the wet fields and -earth. And then there was the muffled sound as of a closed door. “What -is that?” said Aunt Sophy, pricking up her ears, “It cannot be visitors -come so late, and on such a day as this.” - -“It sounds like some one going out,” Rosalind said, with a shiver, -thinking on what she had seen last night. “Perhaps,” she added eagerly, -after a moment, with a great sense of relief, “Mr. Blake going away.” - -“It will be that, of course, though I did not hear wheels; and what a -dismal night for his drive, poor old gentleman. That wind always makes -me wretched. It moans and groans like a human creature. But it is very -odd, Rosalind, that we did not hear any wheels.” - -“The wind drowns other sounds,” Rosalind said. - -“That must be so, I suppose. Still, I hope he doesn’t think of walking, -Rosalind; an old man of that age.” - -And then once more all fell into silence in the great luxurious house. -Outside the wind blew in the faces of the wayfarers. The rain drenched -them in sudden gusts, the paths were slippery and wet, the trees -discharged sharp volleys of collected rain as the blasts blew. To -struggle across the park was no easy matter in the face of the blinding -sleet and capricious wind; and you could not hear your voice under the -trees for the din that was going on overhead. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Rosalind spent a very restless night. She could not sleep, and the rain -coming down in torrents irritated her with its ceaseless pattering. She -thought, she could not tell why, of the poor people who were out in -it--travellers, wayfarers, poor vagrants, such as she had seen about the -country roads. What would the miserable creatures do in such a dismal -night? As she lay awake in the darkness she pictured them to herself, -drenched and cold, dragging along the muddy ways. No one in whom she was -interested was likely to be reduced to such misery, but she thought of -them, she could not tell why. She had knocked at Mrs. Trevanion’s door -as she came up-stairs, longing to go in to say another word, to give her -a kiss in her weariness. Rosalind had an ache and terrible question in -her heart which she had never been able to get rid of, notwithstanding -the closeness of the intercourse on the funeral day and the exuberant -profession of faith to which she had given vent: “You can do no wrong.” -Her heart had cried out this protestation of faith, but in her mind -there had been a terrible drawing back, like that of the wave which has -dashed brilliantly upon a stony beach only to groan and turn back again, -carrying everything with it. Through all this sleepless night she lay -balancing between these two sensations--the enthusiasm and the doubt. -Her mother! It seemed a sort of blasphemy to judge or question that -highest of all human authorities--that type and impersonation of all -that was best. And yet it would force itself upon her, in spite of all -her holding back. Where was she going that night? Supposing the former -events nothing, what, oh, what was the new-made widow going to do on the -eve of her husband’s funeral out in the park, all disguised and -concealed in the dusk? The more Rosalind denied her doubts expression -the more bitterly did that picture force itself upon her--the veiled, -muffled figure, the watching accomplice, and the door so stealthily -opened. Without practice and knowledge and experience, who could have -done all that? If Rosalind herself wanted to steal out quietly, a -hundred hinderances started up in her way. If she tried anything of the -kind she knew very well that every individual whom she wished to avoid -would meet her and find her out. It is so with the innocent, but with -those who are used to concealment, not so. These were the things that -said themselves in her mind without any consent of hers as she labored -through the night. And when the first faint sounds of waking began to be -audible, a distant door opening, an indication that some one was -stirring, Rosalind got up too, unable to bear it any longer. She sprang -out of bed and wrapped herself in her dressing-gown, resolved to go to -her mother’s room and disperse all those ghosts of night. How often had -she run there in childish troubles and shaken them off! That last court -of appeal had never been closed to her. A kiss, a touch of the soft hand -upon her head, a comforting word, had charmed away every spectre again -and again. Perhaps Rosalind thought she would have the courage to speak -all out, perhaps to have her doubts set at rest forever; but even if she -had not courage for that, the mere sight of Mrs. Trevanion was enough to -dispel all prejudices, to make an end of all doubts. It was quite dark -in the passages as she flitted across the large opening of the stairs. -Down-stairs in the great hall there was a spark of light, where a -housemaid, kneeling within the great chimney, was lighting the fire. -There was a certain relief even in this, in the feeling of a new day and -life begun again. Rosalind glided like a ghost, in her warm -dressing-gown, to Mrs. Trevanion’s door. She knocked softly, but there -was no reply. Little wonder, at this hour of the morning; no doubt the -mother was asleep. Rosalind opened the door. - -There is a kind of horror of which it is difficult to give any -description in the sensations of one who goes into a room expecting to -find a sleeper in the safety and calm of natural repose and finds it -empty, cold, and vacant. The shock is extraordinary. The certainty that -the inhabitant must be there is so profound, and in a moment is replaced -by an uncertainty which nothing can equal--a wild dread that fears it -knows not what, but always the worst that can be feared. Rosalind went -in with the soft yet confident step of a child, who knows that the -mother will wake at a touch, almost at a look, and turn with a smile and -a kiss to listen, whatever the story that is brought to her may be. -Fuller confidence never was. She did not even look before going straight -to the bedside. She had, indeed, knelt down there before she found out. -Then she sprang to her feet again with the cry of one who had touched -death unawares. It was like death to her, the touch of the cold, smooth -linen, all folded as it had been in preparation for the inmate--who was -to sleep there no more. She looked round the room as if asking an answer -from every corner. “Mother, where are you? Mother! Where are you, -mother?” she cried, with a wild voice of astonishment and dismay. - -There was no light in the room; a faint paleness to show the window, a -silence that was terrible, an atmosphere as of death itself. Rosalind -flew, half frantic, into the dressing-room adjoining, which for some -time past had been occupied by Jane. There a night-light which had been -left burning flickered feebly, on the point of extinction. The faint -light showed the same vacancy--the bed spread in cold order, everything -empty, still. Rosalind felt her senses giving way. Her impulse was to -rush out through the house, calling, asking, Where were they? Death -seemed to be in the place--death more mysterious and more terrible than -that with which she had been made familiar. After a pause she left the -room and hurried breathless to that occupied by her uncle. How different -there was the atmosphere, charged with human breath, warm with -occupation. She burst in, too terrified for thought. - -“Uncle John!” she cried, “Uncle John!” taking him by the shoulder. - -It was not easy to wake him out of his deep sleep. At last he sat up in -his bed, half awake, and looked at her with consternation. - -“Rosalind! what is the matter?” he cried. - -“Mamma is not in her room--where is she, where is she?” the girl -demanded, standing over him like a ghost in the dark. - -“Your mother is not-- I--I suppose she’s tired, like all the rest of us,” -he said, with a sleepy desire to escape this premature awakening. “Why, -it’s dark still, Rosalind. Go back to bed, my dear. Your mother--” - -“Listen, Uncle John. Mamma is not in her room. No one has slept there -to-night; it is all empty; my mother is gone, is gone! Where has she -gone?” the girl cried, wildly. “She has not been there all night.” - -“Good God!” John Trevanion cried. He was entirely roused now. “Rosalind, -you must be making some mistake.” - -“There is no mistake. I thought perhaps you might know something. No one -has slept there to-night. Oh, Uncle John, Uncle John, where is my -mother? Let us go and find her before everybody knows.” - -“Rosalind, leave me, and I will get up. I can tell you nothing--yes, I -can tell you something; but I never thought it would be like this. It is -your father who has sent her away.” - -“Papa!” the girl cried; “oh, Uncle John, stop before you have taken -everything away from me; neither father nor mother!--you take everything -from me!” she said, with a cry of despair. - -“Go away,” he said, “and get dressed, Rosalind, and then we can see -whether there is anything to be done.” - -An hour later they stood together by the half-kindled fire in the hall. -John Trevanion had gone through the empty rooms with his niece, who was -distracted, not knowing what she did. By this time a pale and gray -daylight, which looked like cold and misery made visible, had diffused -itself through the great house. That chill visibleness, showing all the -arrangements of the room prepared for rest and slumber, where nobody had -slept, had something terrible in it that struck them both with awe. -There was no letter, no sign to be found of leave-taking. When they -opened the wardrobe and drawers, a few dresses and necessaries were -found to be gone, and it appeared that Jane had sent two small boxes to -the village which she had represented to be old clothes, “colored -things,” for which her mistress would now have no need. It was to -Rosalind like a blow in the dark, a buffet from some ghostly hand, -additional to her other pain, when she found it was these “colored -things” and not the prepared, newly made mourning which her stepmother -had taken with her. This seemed a cutting off from them, an entire -abandonment, which made her misery deeper; but naturally John Trevanion -did not think of that. He told her the story of the will while they -stood together in the hall. But he could think of nothing to do, nor -could he give any hope that this terrible event was a thing to be undone -or concealed. “It must have happened,” he said, “sooner or later; and -though it is a shock--a great shock--” - -“Oh, Uncle John, it is--there was never anything so terrible. How can -you use ordinary words? A shock! If the wind had blown down a tree it -would be a shock. Don’t you see, it is the house that has been blown -down? we have nothing--nothing to shelter us, we children. My mother and -my father! We are orphans, and far, far worse than orphans. We having -nothing left but shame--nothing but shame!” - -“Rosalind, it is worse for the others than for you. You, at least, are -clear of it; she is not your mother.” - -“She is all the mother I have ever known,” Rosalind cried for the -hundredth time. “And,” she added, with quivering lips, “I am the -daughter of the man who on his death-bed has brought shame upon his own, -and disgraced the wife that was like an angel to him. If the other could -be got over, that can never be got over. He did it, and he cannot undo -it. And she is wicked too. She should not have yielded like that; she -should have resisted--she should have refused; she should not have gone -away.” - -“Had she done so it would have been our duty to insist upon it,” said -John Trevanion, sadly. “We had no alternative. You will find when you -think it over that this sudden going is for the best.” - -“Oh, that is so easy to say when it is not your heart that is wrung, but -some one else’s; and how can it ever be,” cried Rosalind, with a dismal -logic which many have employed before her, “that what is all wrong from -beginning to end can be for the best?” - -This was the beginning of a day more miserable than words can describe. -They made no attempt to conceal the calamity; it was impossible to -conceal it. The first astounded and terror-stricken housemaid who -entered the room spread it over the house like wildfire. Madam had gone -away. Madam had not slept in her bed all night. When Rosalind, who could -not rest, made one of her many aimless journeys up-stairs, she heard a -wail from the nurseries, and Russell, rushing out, suddenly confronted -her. The woman was pale with excitement; and there was a mixture of -compunction and triumph and horror in her eyes. - -“What does this mean, Miss Rosalind? Tell me, for God’s sake!” she -cried. - -It did Rosalind a little good in her misery to find herself in front of -an actor in this catastrophe; one who was guilty and could be made to -suffer. “It means,” she cried, with sudden rage, “that you must leave my -mother’s children at once--this very moment! My uncle will give you your -wages, whatever you want, but you shall not stay here, not an hour.” - -“My wages!” the woman cried, with a sort of scream; “do I care for -wages? Leave my babies, as I have brought up? Oh, never, never! You may -say what you please, you that were always unnatural, that held for her -instead of your own flesh and blood. You are cruel, cruel; but I won’t -stand it-- I won’t. There’s more to be consulted, Miss Rosalind, than -you.” - -“I would be more cruel if I could-- I would strike you,” cried the -impassioned girl, clinching her small hands, “if it were not a shame for -a lady to do it--you, who have taken away mother from me and made me -hate and despise my own father, oh, God forgive me! And it is your -doing, you miserable woman. Let me never see you again. To see you is -like death to me. Go away--go away!” - -“And yet I was better than a mother to you once,” said Russell, who had -cried out and put her hand to her heart as if she had received a blow. -Her heart was tender to her nursling, though pitiless otherwise. “I -saved your life,” she cried, beginning to weep; “I took you when your -true mother died. You would have loved me but for that woman--that--” - -Rosalind stamped her foot passionately upon the floor; she was -transported by misery and wrath. “Do not dare to speak to me! Go -away--go out of the house. Uncle John,” she cried, hurrying to the -balustrade and looking down into the hall where he stood, too wretched -to observe what was going on, “will you come and turn this woman away?” - -He came slowly up-stairs at this call, with his hands in his pockets, -every line of his figure expressing despondency and dismay. It was only -when he came in sight of Russell, flushed, crying, and injured, yet -defiant too, that he understood what Rosalind meant by the appeal. “Yes, -it will be well that you should go,” he said. “You have made mischief -that never can be mended. No one in this house will ever forgive you. -The best thing you can do is to go--” - -“The mischief was not my making,” cried Russell. “It’s not them that -tells but them that goes wrong that are to blame. And the -children--there’s the children to think of--who will take care of them -like me? I’d die sooner than leave the children. They’re the same as my -flesh and blood. They have been in my hands since ever they were born,” -the woman cried with passion. “Oh, Mr. Trevanion, you that have always -been known for a kind gentleman, let me stay with the children! Their -mother, she can desert them, but I can’t; it will break my heart.” - -“You had better go,” said John Trevanion, with lowering brows. At this -moment Reginald appeared on the scene from another direction, pulling on -his jacket in great hurry and excitement. “What does it all mean?” the -boy cried, full of agitation. “Oh, if it’s only Russell! They told me -some story about-- Why are you bullying Russell, Uncle John?” - -“Oh, Mr. Reginald, you’ll speak for me. You are my own boy, and you are -the real master. Don’t let them break my heart,” cried Russell, holding -out her imploring hands. - -“Oh, if it’s only Russell,” the boy cried, relieved; “but they -said--they told me--” - -Another door opened as he spoke, and Aunt Sophy, dishevelled, the gray -locks falling about her shoulders, a dressing-gown huddled about her -ample figure, appeared suddenly. “For God’s sake, speak low! What does -it all mean? Don’t expose everything to the servants, whatever it is,” -she cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Presently they all assembled in the hall--a miserable party. The door of -the breakfast-room stood open, but no one went near it. They stood in a -knot, all huddled together, speaking almost in whispers. Considering -that everybody in the house now knew that Madam had never been in bed at -all, that she must have left Highcourt secretly in the middle of the -night, no precaution could have been more foolish. But Mrs. Lennox had -not realized this; and her anxiety to silence scandal was extreme. She -stood quite close to her brother, questioning him. “But what do you -mean? How could Reginald do it? What did he imagine? And, oh! couldn’t -you put a stop to it, for the sake of the family, John?” - -Young Reginald stood on the other side, confused between anger and -ignorance, incapacity to understand and a desire to blame some one. -“What does she mean by it?” he said. “What did father mean by it? Was it -just to make us all as wretched as possible--as if things weren’t bad -enough before?” It was impossible to convey to either of them any real -understanding of the case. “But how could he part the children from -their mother?” said Aunt Sophy. “She is their mother, their mother; not -their stepmother. You forget, John; she’s Rosalind’s stepmother. -Rosalind might have been made my ward; that would have been natural; but -the others are her own. How could he separate her from her own? She -ought not to have left them! Oh, how could she leave them?” the -bewildered woman cried. - -“If she had not done it the children would have been destitute, Sophy. -It was my business to make her do it, unless she had been willing to -ruin the children.” - -“Not me,” cried Reginald, loudly. “He could not have taken anything from -me. She might have stuck to me, and I should have taken care of her. -What had she to be frightened about? I suppose,” he added after a pause, -“there would have been plenty--to keep all the children too--” - -“Highcourt is not such a very large estate, Rex. Lowdean and the rest -are unentailed. You would have been much impoverished too.” - -“Oh!” Reginald cried, with an angry frown; but then he turned to another -side of the question, and continued vehemently, “Why on earth, when she -knew papa was so cranky and had it all in his power, why did she -aggravate him? I think they must all have been mad together, and just -tried how to spite us most!” cried the boy, with a rush of passionate -tears to his eyes. The house was miserable altogether. He wanted his -breakfast, and he had no heart to eat it. He could not bear the solemn -spying of the servants. Dorrington, in particular, would come to the -door of the breakfast-room and look in with an expression of mysterious -sympathy for which Reginald would have liked to kill him. “I wish I had -never come away from school at all. I wish I were not going back. I wish -I were anywhere out of this,” he cried. But he did not suggest again -that his mother should have “stuck to” him. He wanted to know why -somebody did not interfere; why this thing and the other was permitted -to be done. “Some one could have stopped it if they had tried,” Reginald -said; and that was Aunt Sophy’s opinion too. - -The conclusion of all was that Mrs. Lennox left Highcourt with the -children and Rosalind as soon as their preparations could be made, by -way of covering as well as possible the extraordinary revolution in the -house. It was the only expedient any of these distracted people could -think of to throw a little illusion over Mrs. Trevanion’s abrupt -departure. Of course they were all aware everything must be known. What -is there that is not known? And to think that a large houseful of -servants would keep silent on such a piece of family history was past -all expectation. No doubt it was already known through the village and -spreading over the neighborhood. “Madam” had been caught meeting some -man in the park when her husband was ill, poor gentleman! And now, the -very day of the funeral, she was off with the fellow, and left all her -children, and everything turned upside down. The older people all knew -exactly what would be said, and they knew that public opinion would -think the worst, that no explanations would be allowed, that the -vulgarest, grossest interpretation would be so much easier than anything -else, so ready, so indisputable--she had gone away with her lover. Mrs. -Lennox herself could not help thinking so in the depths of her mind, -though on the surface she entertained other vague and less assured -ideas. What else could explain it? Everybody knew the force of passion, -the way in which women will forsake everything, even their children, -even their homes--that was comprehensible, though so dreadful. But -nothing else was comprehensible. Aunt Sophy, in the depth of her heart, -though she was herself an innocent woman, was not sure that John was not -inventing, to shield his sister-in-law, that incredible statement about -the will. She felt that she herself would say anything for the same -purpose--she would not mind what it was--anything rather than that -Grace, a woman they had all thought so much of, had “gone wrong” in such -a dreadful way. Nevertheless it was far more comprehensible that she had -“gone wrong” than any other explanation could be. Though she had been a -woman upon whom no breath of scandal had ever come, a woman who overawed -evil speakers, and was above all possibility of reproach, yet it was -always possible that she might have “gone wrong.” Against such hazards -there could be no defence. But Mrs. Lennox was very willing to do -anything to cover up the family trouble. She even went the length of -speaking somewhat loudly to her own maid, in the hearing of some of the -servants of the house, about Mrs. Trevanion’s “early start.” “We shall -catch her up on the way,” Mrs. Lennox said. “I don’t wonder, do you, -Morris, that she went by that early train? Poor dear! I remember when I -lost my first dear husband I couldn’t bear the sight of the house and -the churchyard where he was lying. But we shall catch her up,” the -kind-hearted hypocrite said, drying her eyes. As if the housemaids were -to be taken in so easily! as if they did not know far more than Mrs. -Lennox did, who thus lent herself to a falsehood! When the children came -down, dressed in their black frocks, with eyes wide open and full of -eager curiosity, Mrs. Lennox was daunted by the cynical air with which -Sophy, her namesake and godchild, regarded her. “You needn’t say -anything to me about catching up mamma, for I know better,” the child -said, vindictively. “She likes somebody else better than us, and she has -just gone away.” - -“Rosalind,” Mrs. Lennox cried, in dismay, “I hope that woman is not -coming with us, that horrible woman that puts such things into the -children’s heads. I hope you have sent Russell away.” - -But when the little ones were all packed in the carriage with their -aunt, who could not endure to see any one cry, there was a burst of -simultaneous weeping. “I neber love nobody but Nana. I do to nobody but -Nana,” little Johnny shouted. His little sister said nothing, but her -small mouth quivered, and the piteous aspect of her face, struggling -against a passion of restrained grief, was the most painful of all. -Sophy, however, continued defiant. “You may send her away, but me and -Reginald will have her back again,” she said. Aunt Sophy could scarcely -have been more frightened had she taken a collection of bombshells with -her into the carriage. The absence of mamma was little to the children, -who had been so much separated from her by their father’s long illness; -but Russell, the “Nana” of their baby affections, had a closer hold. - -With these rebellious companions, and with all the misery of the family -tragedy overshadowing her, Rosalind made the journey more sadly than any -of the party. At times it seemed impossible for her to believe that all -the miseries that had happened were real. Was it not rather a dream from -which she might awaken, and find everything as of old? To think that she -should be leaving her home, feeling almost a fugitive, hastily, -furtively, in order to cover the flight of one who had been her type of -excellence all her life: to think that father and mother were both gone -from her--gone out of her existence, painfully, miserably; not to be -dwelt upon with tender grief, such as others had the privilege of -enduring, but with bitter anguish and shame. The wails of the children -as they grew tired with the journey, the necessity of taking the -responsibility of them upon herself, hushing the cries of the little -ones for “Nana,” silencing Sophy, who was disposed to be impertinent, -keeping the weight of the party from the too susceptible shoulders of -the aunt, made a complication and interruption of her thoughts which -Rosalind was too inexperienced to feel as an alleviation, and which made -a fantastic mixture of tragedy and burlesque in her mind. She had to -think of the small matters of the journey, and to satisfy Aunt Sophy’s -fears as to the impossibility of getting the other train at the -junction, and the risk of losing the luggage, and to persuade her that -Johnny’s restlessness, his refusal to be comforted by the anxious -nursery-maid, and wailing appeals for Russell, would wear off by and by -as baby-heartbreaks do. “But I have known a child fret itself to death,” -Mrs. Lennox cried. “I have heard of instances in which they would not be -comforted, Rosalind; and what should we do if the child was to pine, and -perhaps to die?” Rosalind, so young, so little experienced, was -overwhelmed by this suggestion. She took Johnny upon her own lap, and -attempted to soothe him, with a sense that she might turn out a kind of -murderer if the child did not mend. It was consolatory to feel that, -warmly wrapped, and supported against her young bosom, Johnny got -sleepy, and moaned himself into oblivion of his troubles. But this was -not so pleasant when they came to the junction, and Rosalind had to -stumble out of the carriage somehow, and hurry to the waiting train with -poor little Johnny’s long legs thrust out from her draperies. It was at -this moment, as she got out, that she saw a face in the crowd which gave -her a singular thrill in the midst of her trouble. The wintry afternoon -was falling into darkness, the vast, noisy place was swarming with life -and tumult. She had to walk a little slower than the rest on account of -her burden, which she did not venture to give into other arms, in case -the child should wake. It was the face of the young man whom she had met -in the park--the stranger, so unlike anybody else, about whom she had -been so uncomfortably uncertain whether he was or not-- But what did that -matter? If he had been a prince of the blood or the lowest adventurer, -what was it to Rosalind? Her mind was full of other things, and no man -in the world had a right to waylay her, to follow her, to trace her -movements. It made her hot and red with personal feeling in the midst of -all the trouble that surrounded her. He had no right--no right; and yet -the noblest lover who ever haunted his lady’s window to see her shadow -on the blind had no right; and perhaps, if put into vulgar words, Romeo -had no right to scale that wall, and Juliet on her balcony was a forward -young woman. There are things which are not to be defended by any rule, -which youth excuses, nay, justifies; and to see a pair of sympathetic -eyes directed towards her through the crowd--eyes that found her out -amid all that multitude--touched Rosalind’s heart. Somehow they made her -trouble, and even the weight of her little brother, who was heavy, more -easy to bear. She was weak and worn out, and this it was, perhaps, which -made her so easily moved. But the startled sensation with which she -heard a voice at her side, somewhat too low and too close, saying, “Will -you let me carry the child for you, Miss Trevanion?” whirled the softer -sensation away into eddies of suspicion and dark thrills of alarm and -doubt. “Oh, no, no!” she cried, instinctively hurrying on. - -“I ask nothing but to relieve you,” he said. - -“Oh, thanks! I am much obliged to you, but it is impossible. It would -wake him,” she said hurriedly, not looking up. - -“You think me presumptuous, Miss Trevanion, and so I am; but it is -terrible to see you so burdened and not be able to help.” - -This made her burden so much the more that Rosalind quickened her steps, -and stumbled and almost fell. “Oh, please,” she said, “go away. You may -mean to be kind. Oh, please go away.” - -The nursery-maid, who came back at Mrs. Lennox’s orders to help -Rosalind, saw nothing particular to remark, except that the young lady -was flushed and disturbed. But to hurry along a crowded platform with a -child in your arms was enough to account for that. The maid could very -well appreciate such a drawback to movement. She succeeded, with the -skill of her profession, in taking the child into her own arms, and -repeated Mrs. Lennox’s entreaties to make haste. But Rosalind required -no solicitation in this respect. She made a dart forward, and was in the -carriage in a moment, where she threw herself into a seat and hid her -face in her hands. - -“I knew it would be too much for you,” said Aunt Sophy, soothingly. “Oh, -Thirza is used to it. I pity nurses with all my heart; but they are used -to it. But you, my poor darling, in such a crowd! Did you think we -should miss the train? I know what that is--to hurry along, and yet be -sure you will miss it. Here, Thirza, here; we are all right; and after -all there is plenty of time.” After a pause Aunt Sophy said, “I wonder -who that is looking so intently into this carriage. Such a remarkable -face! But I hope he does not mean to get in here; we are quite full -here. Rosalind, you look like nothing at all in that corner, in your -black dress. He will think the seat is vacant and come in if you don’t -make a little more appearance. Rosalind-- Good gracious, I believe she -has fainted!” - -“No, Aunt Sophy.” Rosalind raised her head and uncovered her pale face. -She knew that she should see that intruder looking at her. He seemed to -be examining the carriages, looking for a place, and as she took her -hands from her face their eyes met. There was that unconscious -communication between them which betrays those who recognize each other, -whether they make any sign or not. Aunt Sophy gave a wondering cry. - -“Why, you know him! and yet he does not take his hat off. Who is it, -Rosalind?” - -“I have seen him--in the village--” - -“Oh, I know,” cried little Sophy, pushing forward. “It is the gentleman. -I have seen him often. He lived at the Red Lion. Don’t you remember, -Rosalind, the gentleman that mamma wouldn’t let me--” - -“Oh, Sophy, be quiet!” cried the girl. What poignant memories awoke with -the words! - -“But how strange he looks,” cried Sophy. “His hat down over his eyes, -and I believe he has got a beard or something--” - -“You must not run on like that. I dare say it is quite a different -person,” said Aunt Sophy. “What made me notice him is that he has eyes -exactly like little Johnny’s eyes.” - -It was one of Aunt Sophy’s weaknesses that she was always finding out -likenesses; but Rosalind’s mind was disturbed by another form of her -original difficulty about the stranger. It might be forgiven him that he -hung about her path, and even followed at a distance; it was excusable -that he should ask if he could help her with the child; but having thus -ventured to accost her, and having established a sort of acquaintance by -being useful to her, why, when their eyes met, did he make no sign of -recognition? No, he could not be a gentleman! Then Rosalind awoke with -horror to find that on the very first day after all the calamities that -had befallen her family she was able to discuss such a question with -herself. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -John Trevanion remained in the empty house. It had seemed that morning -as if nothing could be more miserable: but it was more miserable now, -when every cheerful element had gone out of it, and not even the distant -sound of a child’s voice, or Rosalind’s dress, with its faint sweep of -sound, was to be heard in the vacancy. After he had seen them off he -walked home through the village with a very heavy heart. In front of the -little inn there was an unusual stir: a number of rustic people gathered -about the front of the house, surrounding two men of an aspect not at -all rustical, who were evidently questioning the slow but eager rural -witnesses. “It must ha’ been last night as he went,” said one. “I don’t -know when he went,” said another, “but he never come in to his supper, -I’ll take my oath o’ that.” They all looked somewhat eagerly towards -John, who felt himself compelled to interfere, much as he disliked doing -so. “What is the matter?” he asked, and then from half a dozen eager -mouths the story rushed out. “A gentleman” had been living at the Red -Lion for some time back. Nobody, it appeared, could make out what he -wanted there; everybody (they now said) suspected him from the first. He -would lie in bed all morning, and then get up towards afternoon. Nothing -more was necessary to demonstrate his immorality, the guilt of the man. -He went out trapesing in the woods at night, but he wasn’t no poacher, -for he never seemed to handle a gun nor know aught about it. He would -turn white when anybody came in and tried a trigger, or to see if the -ball was drawn. No, he wasn’t no poacher: but he did always be in the -woods o’ night, which meant no good, the rustics thought. There were -whisperings aside, and glances, as this description was given, which -were not lost upon John, but his attention was occupied in the first -place by the strangers, who came forward and announced that they were -detectives in search of an offender, a clerk in a merchant’s office, who -had absconded, having squandered a considerable sum of his master’s -money. “But this is an impossible sort of place for such a culprit to -have taken refuge in,” John said, astounded. The chief of the two -officers stepped out in front of the other, and asked if he might say a -few words to the gentleman, then went on accompanying John, as he -mechanically continued his way, repressing all appearance of the -extraordinary commotion thus produced in his mind. - -“You see, sir,” said the man, “it’s thought that the young fellow had -what you may call a previous connection here.” - -“Ah! was he perhaps related to some one in the village? I never heard -his name.” (The name was Everard, and quite unknown to the -neighborhood.) - -“No, Mr. Trevanion,” said the other, significantly, “not in the -village.” - -“Where, then--what do you mean? What could the previous connection that -brought him here be?” - -The man took a pocket-book from his pocket, and produced a crumpled -envelope. “You may have seen this writing before, sir,” he said. - -John took it with a thrill of pain and alarm, recognizing the paper, the -stamp of “Highcourt,” torn but decipherable on the seal, and feeling -himself driven to one conclusion which he would fain have pushed from -him; but when he had smoothed it out, with a hand which trembled in -spite of himself, he suddenly cried out, with a start of overwhelming -surprise and relief, “Why, it is my brother’s hand!” - -“Your brother’s?” cried the officer, with a blank look. “You mean, sir, -the gentleman that was buried yesterday?” - -“My brother, Mr. Trevanion, of Highcourt. I do not know how he can have -been connected with the person you seek. It must have been some -accidental link. I have already told you I never heard the name.” - -The man was as much confused and startled as John himself. “If that’s -so,” he said, “you have put us off the track, and I don’t know now what -to do. We had heard,” he added, with a sidelong look of vigilant -observation, “that there was a lady in the case.” - -“I know nothing about any lady,” said John Trevanion, briefly. - -“There’s no trusting to village stories, sir. We were told that a lady -had disappeared, and that it was more than probable--” - -“As you say, village stories are entirely untrustworthy,” said John. “I -can throw no light on the subject, except that the address on the -envelope (Everard, is it?) is in my brother’s hand. He might, of course, -have a hundred correspondents unknown to me, but I certainly never heard -of this one. I suppose there is no more I can do for you, for I am -anxious to get back to Highcourt. You have heard, no doubt, that the -family is in deep mourning and sorrow.” - -“I am very sorry, sir,” said the official, “and distressed to have -interrupted you at such a moment, but it is our duty to leave no stone -unturned.” Then he lingered for a moment. “I suppose, then,” he said, -“there is no truth in the story about the lady--” - -John turned upon him with a short laugh. “You don’t expect me, I hope, -to answer for all the village stories about ladies,” he said, waving his -hand as he went on. “I have told you all I know.” - -He quickened his pace and his companion fell back. But the officer was -not satisfied, and John Trevanion went on, with his mind in a dark and -hopeless confusion, not knowing what extraordinary addition of -perplexity was added to the question by this new piece of evidence, but -feeling vaguely that it increased the darkness all around him. He had -not in any way associated the stranger whom he had met on the road with -his sister-in-law. He had thought it likely enough that the young man, -perhaps of pretensions too humble to get admittance at Highcourt, had -lingered about in foolish youthful adoration of Rosalind, which, however -presumptuous it might be, was natural enough. To hear now that the young -man who had presumed to do Miss Trevanion a service was a criminal in -hiding made his blood boil. But his brother’s handwriting threw -everything into confusion. How did this connect with the rest, what -light did it throw upon the imbroglio, in what way could it be connected -with the disappearance of Madam? All these things surged about him -vaguely as he walked, but he could make nothing coherent, no rational -whole out of them. The park and the trees lay in a heavy mist. The day -was not cold, but stifling, with a low sky, and heavy vapors in the air, -everything around wet, sodden, dreary. Never had the long stretches of -turf and distant glades of trees seemed to him so lonely, so deserted -and forsaken. There was not a movement to be seen, nobody coming by that -public pathway which had been so great a grievance to the Trevanions for -generations back. John, though he shared the family feeling in this -respect, would have gladly now seen a village procession moving along -the contested path. The house seemed to him to lie in a cold enclosure -of mist and damp, abandoned by everybody, a spot on which there was a -curse. But this, of course, was merely fanciful; and he shook off the -feeling. There was pain enough involved in its recent history without -the aid of imagination. - -There was plenty to do, however. Mr. Trevanion’s papers had to be put in -order, his personal affairs wound up; and it was almost better to have -no interruption in this duty, and so get over it as quickly as -possible. There is something dreadful under all circumstances in -fulfilling this office. To examine into the innermost recesses in which -a man has kept his treasures, his most intimate possessions, the -records, perhaps, of his affections and ambitions; to open his desk, to -pull out his drawers, to turn over the letters which, perhaps, to him -were sacred, never to be revealed to any eye but his own, is an office -from which it is natural to shrink. The investigator feels himself a -spy, taking advantage of the pathetic helplessness of the dead, their -powerlessness to protect themselves. John Trevanion sat down in the -library with the sense of intrusion strong upon him, yet with a certain -painful curiosity too. He was afraid of discovering something. At every -new harmless paper which he opened he drew a long breath of relief. The -papers of recent times were few--they were chiefly on the subject of -money, the investments which had been made, appeals for funds sent to -him for the needs of the estate, for repairs and improvements, which it -was evident Mr. Trevanion had been slow to yield to. It seemed from the -letters addressed to him that most of his business had been managed -through his wife, which was a fact his brother was aware of; but somehow -the constant reference to her, and the evident position assigned to her -as in reality the active agency in the whole, added a curious and -bewildering pang to the confusion in which all this had closed. It -seemed beyond belief that this woman, who had stood by her husband so -faithfully, his nurse, his adviser, his agent, his eyes and ears, should -be now a sort of fugitive, under the dead man’s ban, separated from all -she cared for in the world. John stopped in the middle of a bundle of -letters to ask himself whether he had ever known a similar case. There -was nothing like it in the law reports, nothing even in those _causes -célèbres_ which include so many wonders. A woman with everything in her -hands, her husband’s business as well as his health, and the governance -of her great household, suddenly turned away from it without reason -given or any explanation--surely the man must have been mad--surely he -must have been mad! It was the only solution that seemed possible. But -then there arose before the thinker’s troubled vision those scenes which -had preceded his brother’s death--the bramble upon her dress, the wet -feet which she had avowed, with--was it a certain bravado? And again, -that still more dreadful moment in the park, on the eve of her husband’s -funeral, when he had himself seen her meet and talk with some one who -was invisible in the shadow of the copse. He had seen it, there could be -no question on the subject. What did it mean? He got up, feeling the -moisture rise to his forehead in the conflict of his feelings; he could -not sit still and go for the hundredth time over this question. What did -it mean? - -While he was walking up and down the library, unable to settle to any -examination of those calm business papers in which no agitation was, a -letter was brought to him. It bore the stamp of a post-town at a short -distance, and he turned it over listlessly enough, until it occurred to -him that the writing was that of his sister-in-law. Madam wrote as many -women write; there was nothing remarkable about her hand. John Trevanion -opened the letter with excitement. It was as follows: - - “DEAR BROTHER JOHN,--You may not wish me to call you so now, but I - have always felt towards you so, and it still seems a link to those - I have left behind to have one relationship which I may claim. - There seems no reason why I should not write to you, or why I - should conceal from you where I am. You will not seek to bring me - back; I am safe enough in your hands. I am going out of England, - but if you want to communicate with me on any subject, the bankers - will always know where I am. It is, as I said, an additional - humiliation in my great distress that I must take the provision my - husband has made, and cannot fling it back to you indignantly as a - younger woman might. I am old enough to know, and bitterly - acknowledge, that I cannot hope to maintain myself; and I have - others dependent on me. This necessity will always make it easy - enough to find me, but I do not fear that you will wish to seek me - out or bring me back. - - “I desire you to know that I understand my husband’s will better - than any one else, and perhaps, knowing his nature, blame him less - than you will be disposed to do. When he married me I was very - forlorn and miserable. I had a story, which is the saddest thing - that can be said of a woman. He was generous to me then in every - particular but one, but that one was very important. I had to make - a sacrifice, an unjustifiable sacrifice, and a promise which was - unnatural. Herein lies my fault. I have not kept that promise; I - could not; it was more than flesh and blood was capable of; and I - deceived him. I was always aware that if he discovered it he might, - and probably would, take summary vengeance. Now he has discovered - it, and he has done without ruth what he promised me to do if I - broke my word to him. I deserve it, you see, though not in the way - the vulgar will suppose. To them I cannot explain, and - circumstances, alas, make it impossible for me to be explicit even - with you. But perhaps, even in writing so much, you may be - delivered from some suspicions of me which, if I read you right, - you will be glad to find are not justified. - - “Farewell, dear John; if we ever should meet in this world--if I - should ever be cleared-- I cannot tell--most likely not--my children - will grow up without knowing me; but I dare not think on that - subject, much less say anything. God bless them! Be as much a - father to them as you can, and let my Rosalind have the letter I - enclose; it will do her no harm: anyhow, she would not believe harm - of me, even though she saw what looked like harm. Pity me a little, - John. I have taken my doom quietly because I have no hope--neither - in what I leave nor in what I go to is there any hope. - - GRACE TREVANION.” - - - -This letter forced tears, such as a man is very slow to shed, to John -Trevanion’s eyes; but there was in reality no explanation in it, no -light upon the family catastrophe, or the confusion of misery and -perplexity she had left behind. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -“Have you ever noticed in your walks, doctor, a young fellow?--you -couldn’t but remark him--a sort of _primo tenore_, big eyed, pale -faced--” - -“All pulmonary,” said Dr. Beaton. “I know the man you mean. He has been -hanging about for a month, more or less, with no visible object. To tell -the truth--” - -John Trevanion raised his hand instinctively. “I find,” he said, -interrupting with a hurried precaution, “that he has been in hiding for -some offence, and men have come after him here because of an envelope -with the Highcourt stamp--” - -Here Dr. Beaton began, with a face of regret, yet satisfaction, to nod -his head, with that offensive air of “I knew it all the time,” which is -more exasperating than any other form of remark. - -“The Highcourt stamp,” continued Trevanion, peremptorily, “and a -direction written in my poor brother’s hand.” - -“In your brother’s hand!” - -“I thought I should surprise you,” John said, with a grim satisfaction. -“I suppose it is according to the rules of the profession that so much -time should have been let slip. I am very glad of it, for my part. -Whatever Reginald can have had to do with the fellow--something -accidental, no doubt--it would have been disagreeable to have his name -mixed up-- I saw the man myself trying to make himself agreeable to -Rosalind.” - -“To Miss Trevanion?” cried the doctor, with evident dismay. “Why, I -thought--” - -“Oh, it was a very simple matter,” said John, interrupting again. “He -laid down some planks for her to cross the floods. And the recompense -she gave him was to doubt whether he was a gentleman, because he had -paid her a compliment--which I must say struck me as a very modest -attempt at a compliment.” - -“It was a tremendous piece of presumption,” said the doctor, with Scotch -warmth. “I don’t doubt Miss Rosalind’s instinct was right, and that he -was no gentleman. He had not the air of it, in my opinion--a limp, -hollow-eyed, phthisical subject.” - -“But consumption does not spare even the cream of society, doctor. It -appears he must have had warning of the coming danger, for he seems to -have got away.” - -“I thought as much!” said Dr. Beaton. “I never expected to see more of -him after-- Oh, I thought as much!” - -John Trevanion eyed the doctor with a look that was almost threatening, -but he said nothing more. Dr. Beaton, too, was on the eve of departure; -his occupation was gone, and his _tête-à-tête_ with John Trevanion not -very agreeable to either of them. But the parting was friendly on all -sides. “The doctor do express himself very nicely,” Dorrington said, -when he joined the company in the housekeeper’s room, after having -solemnly served the two gentlemen at dinner, “about his stay having been -agreeable and all that--just what a gentleman ought to say. There are -medical men of all kinds, just as there are persons of all sorts in -domestic service; and the doctor, he’s one of the right sort.” - -“And a comfort, whatever ailed one, to know there was a doctor in the -house, and as you’d be right done by,” the housekeeper said, which was -the general view in the servants’ hall. These regions were, as may be -supposed, deeply agitated. Russell, one of the most important among -them, had been sent forth weeping and vituperating, and the sudden -departure of the family had left the household free to make every -commentary, possible and impossible. Needless to say that Madam’s -disappearance had but one explanation among them. In all circles the -question would have been so decided by the majority; in the servants’ -hall there was unanimity; no one was bold enough to make a different -suggestion, and had it been made it would have been laughed to scorn. -There were various stories told about her supposed lover, and several -different suppositions current. Gentlemen of different appearances had -been seen about the park by different spectators, and men in careful -disguises had even been admitted into the house, some were certain. That -new man who came to wind the clocks! Why should a new man have been -sent? And he had white hands, altogether unlike the hands of one who -worked for his living. The young man who had lived at the Red Lion was -not left out of the suspicions of the house, but he had not so important -a place there as he had in the mind, for example, of Dr. Beaton, who -had, with grief and pain, but now not without a certain satisfaction, -concluded upon his identity. The buzz and talk, and the whirl of -suppositions and real or imaginary evidence, made a sort of -reverberation through the house. Now and then, when doors were open and -the household off their guard, which, occurred not unfrequently in the -extraordinary calm and leisure, the sounds of the eager voices were -heard even as far as the library, in which John Trevanion sat with his -papers, and sometimes elicited from him a furious message full of -bitterness and wrath. “Can’t you keep your subordinates quiet and your -doors shut,” he said to Dorrington, “instead of leaving them to disturb -me with their infernal clatter and gossip?” “I will see to it, sir,” -said Dorrington, with dignity; “but as for what goes on in the servants’ -’all, I ’ear it only as you ’ear it yourself, sir.” John bade the -over-fine butler to go to--a personage who need not be named, to whom -very fine persons go; and went on with his papers with a consciousness -of all that was being said, the flutter of endless talk which before now -must have blown abroad over all the country, and the false conclusions -that would be formed. He could not publish her letter in the same -way--her letter, which said so much yet so little, which did not, alas, -explain anything. She had accepted the burden, fully knowing what it -was, not deceiving herself as to anything that was to follow; but in -such a case the first sufferer is scarcely so much to be pitied as the -succeeding victims, who have all the misery of seeing the martyr -misconstrued and their own faith laughed at. There were times indeed -when John Trevanion was not himself sure that he had any faith, and felt -himself incapable of striving any longer with the weight of probability -against her which she had never attempted to remove or explain. - -He went through all the late Mr. Trevanion’s papers without finding any -light on the subject of his connection with Everard, or which could -explain the fact of his letter to that person. Several letters from his -bankers referred indeed to the payment of money at Liverpool, which was -where the offender had lived, but this was too faint a light to be -calculated upon. As the days went on, order came to a certain degree out -of the confusion in John Trevanion’s mind. To be suddenly turned out of -the easy existence of a London bachelor about town, with his cosey -chambers and luxurious club, and made to assume the head and charge of a -family so tragically abandoned, was an extraordinary effort for any man. -It was a thing, could he have known it beforehand, which would have made -him fly to the uttermost parts of the earth to avoid such a charge; but -to have no choice simplifies matters, and the mind habituates itself -instinctively to what it is compelled to do. He decided, after much -thought, that it was better the family should not return to Highcourt. -In the changed circumstances, and deprived of maternal care and -protection as they were, no woman about them more experienced than -Rosalind, their return could not be otherwise than painful and -embarrassing. He decided that they should remain with their aunt, having -absolute confidence in her delighted acceptance of their guardianship. -Sophy, indeed, was quite incapable of such a charge, but they had -Rosalind, and they had the ordinary traditions by which such families -are guided. They would, he thought, come to no harm. Mrs. Lennox lived -in the neighborhood of Clifton, far enough off to avoid any great or -general knowledge of the family tragedy. The majority of the servants -were consequently dismissed, and Highcourt, with its windows all closed -and its chimneys all but smokeless, fell back into silence, and stood -amid its park and fine trees, a habitation of the dead. - -It was not until he had done this that John Trevanion carried her -stepmother’s letter to Rosalind. He had a very agitating interview with -her on the day of his arrival at the Limes, which was the suburban -appellation of Sophy’s house. He had to bear the artillery of anxious -looks during dinner, and to avoid as he could his sister’s questions, -which were not over wise, as to what he had heard, and what he thought, -and what people were saying; and it was not till the evening, when the -children were disposed of, and Sophy herself had retired, that Rosalind, -putting her hand within his arm, drew him to the small library, in which -Mrs. Lennox allowed the gentlemen to “make themselves comfortable,” as -she said, tolerating tobacco. “I know you have something to say to me, -Uncle John--something that you could not say before--them all.” - -“Little to say, but something to give you, Rosalind.” She recognized her -stepmother’s handwriting in a moment, though it was, as we have said, -little remarkable, and with a cry of agitated pleasure threw herself -upon it. It was a bulky letter, not like that which he had himself -received, but when it was opened was found to contain a long and -particular code of directions about the children, and only a small -accompanying note. This Rosalind read with an eagerness which made her -cheeks glow. - - “My Rosalind, I am sometimes glad to think now that you are not - mine, and never can have it said to you that your mother is not--as - other mothers are. Sophy and little Amy are not so fortunate. You - must make it up to them, my darling, by being everything to - them--better than I could have been. And when people see what you - are they will forget me. - - “That is not to say, my dearest, that you are to give up your faith - in me. For the moment all is darkness--perhaps will always be - darkness, all my life. There are cases that may occur in which I - shall be able to tell you everything, but what would that matter so - long as your father’s prohibition stands? My heart grows sick when - I think that in no case-- But we will not dwell upon that. My own - (though you are not my own), remember me, love me. I am no more - unworthy of it than other women are. I have written down all I can - think of about the children. You will no doubt have dismissed - Russell, but after a time I almost think she should be taken back, - for she loves the children. She always hated me, but she loves - them. If you can persuade yourself to do it, take her back. Love is - too precious to be lost. I am going away from you all very quietly, - not permitting myself to reflect. When you think of me, believe - that I am doing all I can to live--to live long enough to see my - children again. My darling, my own child, I will not say good-bye - to you, but only God bless you; and till we meet again, - - “Your true MOTHER AND FRIEND.” - -“My true mother,” Rosalind said, with the tears in her eyes, “my dearest -friend! Oh, Uncle John, was there ever any such misery before? Was it -ever so with any woman? Were children ever made wretched like this, and -forced to suffer? And why should it fall to our share?” - -John Trevanion shook his head, pondering over the letter, and over the -long, perfectly calm, most minute, and detailed instructions which -accompanied it. There was nothing left out or forgotten in these -instructions. She must have spent the night in putting down every little -detail, the smallest as well as the greatest. The writing of the letter -to Rosalind showed a little trembling; a tear had fallen on it at one -spot; but the longer paper showed nothing of the kind. It was as clear -and steady as the many manuscripts from the same hand which he had -looked over among his brother’s papers; statements of financial -operations, of farming, of improvements. She had put down all the -necessary precautions to be taken for her children in the same way, -noting all their peculiarities, for the guidance of the young sister who -was hereafter to have the charge of them. This document filled the man -with the utmost wonder. Rosalind took it a great deal more easily. To -her it was natural that her mother should give these instructions; they -were of the highest importance to herself in her novel position, and she -understood perfectly that Madam would be aware of the need of them, and -that to make some provision for that need would be one of the first -things to occur to her. But John Trevanion contemplated the paper from a -very different point of view. That a woman so outraged and insulted as -(if she were innocent) she must feel herself to be, should pause on the -eve of her departure from everything dear to her, from honor and -consideration, her home and her place among her peers, to write about -Johnny’s tendency to croup and Amy’s readiness to catch cold, was to him -more marvellous than almost anything that had gone before. He lingered -over it, reading mechanically all those simple directions. A woman at -peace, he thought, might have done it, one who knew no trouble more -profound than a child’s cough or chilblains. But this woman--in the -moment of her anguish--before she disappeared into the darkness of the -distant world! “I do not understand it at all,” he said as he put it -down. - -“Oh,” cried Rosalind, “who could understand it? I think papa must have -been mad. Are not bad wills sometimes broken, Uncle John?” - -“Not such a will as this. He had a right to leave his money as he -pleased.” - -“But if we were all to join--if we were to show the mistake, the -dreadful mistake, he had made--” - -“What mistake? You could prove that your stepmother was no common woman, -Rosalind. A thing like this is astounding to me. I don’t know how she -could do it. You might prove that she had the power to make fools of you -and me. But you could prove nothing more, my dear. Your father knew -something more than we know. It might be no mistake; he might have very -good reason. Even this letter, though it makes you cry, explains -nothing, Rosalind.” - -“I want nothing explained,” cried the girl. “Do you think I have any -doubt of _her_? I could not bear that she should explain--as if I did -not know what she is! But, Uncle John, let us all go together to the -judge that can do it, and tell him everything, and get him to break the -will.” - -“The judge who can do that is not to be found in Westminster, Rosalind. -It must be one that sees into the heart. I believe in her too--without -any reason--but to take it to law would only be to make our domestic -misery a little better known.” - -Rosalind looked at him with large eyes full of light and excitement. She -felt strong enough to defy the world. “Do you mean to say that, whatever -happens, though we could prove what we know of her, that she is the -best--the best woman in the world--” - -“Were she as pure as ice, as chaste as snow, there is nothing to be -done. Your father does not say, because of this or that. What he says is -absolute. If she continue with the children, or in communication with -them, they lose everything.” - -“Then let us lose everything,” cried Rosalind in her excitement; “rather -be poor and work for our bread, than lose our mother.” - -John Trevanion shook his head. “She has already chosen,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Russell left Highcourt in such wild commotion of mind and temper, such -rage, grief, compunction, and pain, that she was incapable of any real -perception of what had happened, and did not realise, until the damp air -blowing in her face as she hurried across the park, sobbing and crying -aloud, and scarcely able to keep herself from screaming, brought back -her scattered faculties, either what it was that she had been -instrumental in doing, or what she had brought upon herself. She did not -now understand what it was that had happened to Madam, though she had a -kind of vindictive joy, mingled with that sinking of the heart which -those not altogether hardened to human suffering feel in regarding a -catastrophe brought about by their means, in the thought that she had -brought illimitable, irremediable harm to her mistress, whom she had -always hated. She had done this whatever might come of it, and even in -the thrill of her nerves that owned a human horror of this calamity, -there was a fierce exhilaration of success in having triumphed over her -enemy. But perhaps she had never wished, never thought, of so complete a -triumph. The desire of revenge, which springs so naturally in the -undisciplined mind, and is so hot and reckless in its efforts to harm -its object, has most generally no fixed intention, but only a vague wish -to injure, or, rather, punish; for Russell, to her own consciousness, -was inspired by the highest moral sentiment, and meant only to bring -retribution on the wicked and to open the eyes of a man who was -deceived. She did not understand what had really occurred, but the fact -that she had ruined her mistress was at the same time terrible and -delightful to her. She did not mean so much as that; but no doubt Madam -had been found out more wicked than was supposed, and her heart swelled -with pride and a gratified sense of importance even while she trembled. -But the consequences to herself were such as she had never foreseen, and -for the moment overwhelmed her altogether. She wept hysterically as she -hurried to the village, stumbling over the inequalities of the path, -wild with sorrow and anger. She had meant to remain in Madam’s service, -though she had done all she could to destroy her. She thought nothing -less than that life would go on without much visible alteration, and -that she herself, because there was nobody like her, would necessarily -remain with the children to whom her care was indispensable. She had -brought them all up from their birth. She had devoted herself to them, -and felt her right in them almost greater than their mother’s. “My -children,” she said, as the butler said “my plate,” and the housemaid -“my grates and carpets.” She spent her whole life with them, whereas it -is only a part of hers that the most devoted mother can give. The woman, -though she was cruel and hard-hearted in one particular, was in this as -tender and sensitive as the most gentle and feminine of women. She loved -the children with passion. The idea that they could be torn away from -her had never entered her mind. What would they do without her? The two -little ones were delicate: they required constant care; without her own -attention she felt sure they never could be “reared:” and to be driven -from them at a moment’s notice, without time to say good-bye! Sobs came -from her breast, convulsive and hysterical, as she rushed along. “Oh, my -children!” she cried, under her breath, as if it were she who had been -robbed, and who refused to be comforted. She passed some one on the way, -who stopped astonished, to look after her, but whom she could scarcely -see through the mist of her tears, and at last, with a great effort, -subduing the passionate sounds that had been bursting from her, she -hurried through the nearest corner of the village to her mother’s house, -and there, flinging herself down upon a chair, gave herself up to all -the violence of that half-artificial, half-involuntary transport known -as hysterics. Her mother was old, and beyond such violent emotions; but -though greatly astonished, she was not unacquainted with the -manifestation. She got up from the big chair in which she was seated, -tottering a little, and hurried to her daughter, getting hold of and -smoothing out her clinched fingers. “Dear, dear, now, what be the -matter?” she said, soothingly; “Sarah, Sarah, come and look to your poor -sister. What’s come to her, what’s come to her, the poor dear? Lord -bless us, but she do look bad. Fetch a drop of brandy, quick; that’s the -best thing to bring her round.” - -When Russell had been made to swallow the brandy, and had exhausted -herself and brought her mother and sister into accord with her partial -frenzy, she permitted herself to be brought round. She sat up wildly -while still in their hands, and stared about her as if she did not know -where she was. Then she seized her mother by the arm; “I have been sent -away,” she said. - -“Sent away. She’s off of her head still, poor dear! Sent away, when they -can’t move hand nor foot without you!” - -“That’s not so now, mother. It’s all true. I’ve been all the same as -turned out of the house, and by her as I nursed and thought of most of -all; her as was like my very own; Miss Rosalind! Oh!” and Russell showed -inclination to “go off” again, which the assistants resisted by promptly -taking possession of her two arms, and opening the hands which she would -have clinched if she could. - -“There now, deary; there now! don’t you excite yourself. You’re among -them that wishes you well here.” - -“Oh, I know that, mother. But Miss Rosalind, she’s as good as taken me -by the shoulders and put me out of the house, and took my children from -me as I’ve brought up; and what am I to do without my babies? Oh, oh! I -wish I had never been born.” - -“I hope you’ve got your wages and board wages, and something over to -make up? You ought to have that,” said the sister, who was a woman of -good sense. Russell, indeed, had sufficient command of herself to nod in -assent. - -“And your character safe?” said the old woman. “I will say that for you, -deary, that you have always been respectable. And whatever it is that’s -happened, so long as it’s nothing again your character, you’ll get -another place fast enough. I don’t hold with staying too long in one -family. You’d just like to stick there forever.” - -“Oh, don’t speak to me about new places. My children as I’ve brought up! -It has nothing to do with me; it’s all because I told master of Madam’s -goings-on. And he’s been and put her away in his will--and right too. -And Miss Rosalind, that always was unnatural, that took to that woman -more than to her aunt, or me, or any one, she jumps up to defend Madam, -and ‘go out of the house, woman!’ and stamping with her foot, and going -on like a fury. And my little Master Johnny, that would never go to -nobody but me! Oh, mother, I’ll die of it, I’ll die of it--my children -that I’ve brought up!” - -“I’ve told you all,” said the old woman, “never you meddle with the -quality. It can’t come to no good.” She had given up her ministrations, -seeing that her patient had come round, and retired calmly to her chair. -“Madam’s goings-on was no concern of yours. You ought to have known -that. When a poor person puts herself in the way of a rich person, it’s -always her as goes to the wall.” - -Of these maxims the mother delivered herself deliberately as she sat -twirling her thumbs. The sister, who was the mistress of the cottage, -showed a little more sympathy. - -“As long as you’ve got your board wages,” she said, “and a somethin’ to -make up. Mother’s right enough, but I’ll allow as it’s hard to do. -They’re all turned topsy-turvy at the Red Lion about Madam’s young -man--him as all this business was about.” - -“What’s about him?” cried Russell, for the first time with real energy -raising her head. - -“It turns out as he’s robbed his masters in Liverpool,” said Sarah, with -the perfect coolness of a rustic spectator; “just what was to be -expected; and the detectives is after him. He was here yesterday, I’ll -take my oath, but now he’s gone, and there’s none can find him. There’s -a reward of--” - -“I’ll find him,” cried Russell, springing to her feet. “I’ll track him. -I’m good for nothing now in a common way. I cannot rest, I cannot settle -to needlework or that sort.” She was fastening her cloak as she spoke, -and tying on her bonnet. “I’ve heaps of mending to do, for I never had a -moment’s time to think of myself, but only of them that have showed no -more gratitude-- My heart’s broke, that’s what it is-- I can’t settle -down; but here’s one thing I’m just in a humor to do-- I’ll track him -out.” - -“Lord, Lizzie! what are you thinking of it? You don’t know no more than -Adam what way they’re gone, or aught about him.” - -“And if you’ll take my advice, deary,” said the old woman, “you’ll -neither make nor meddle with the quality. Right or wrong, it’s always -the poor folk as go to the wall.” - -“I’ll track him, that’s what I’ll do. I’m just in the humor for that,” -cried Russell, savagely. “Don’t stop me. What do I care for a bit of -money to prove as I’m right. I’ll go and I’ll find them. Providence will -put me on the right way. Providence’ll help me to find all that villainy -out.” - -“But, Lizzie! stop and have a bit to eat at least. Don’t go off like -that, without even a cup of tea--” - -“Oh, don’t speak to me about cups of tea!” Russell rushed at her mother -and dabbed a hurried kiss upon her old cheek. She waved her hand to her -sister, who stood open-mouthed, wondering at her, and finally rushed out -in an excitement and energy which contrasted strangely with her previous -prostration. The two rustic spectators stood gazing after her with -consternation. “She was always one as had no patience,” said the mother -at last. “And without a bit of dinner or a glass of beer, or anything,” -said Sarah. After that they returned to their occupations and closed the -cottage door. - -Russell rushed forth to the railway station, which was at least a mile -from the village. She was transported out of herself with excitement, -misery, a sense of wrong, a sense of remorse--all the conflicting -passions which the crisis had brought. To prove to herself that her -suspicions were justified about Madam was in reality as strong a motive -in her mind as the fierce desire of revenge upon her mistress, which -drove her nearly frantic; and she had that wild confidence in chance, -and indifference to reason, which are at once the strength and weakness -of the uneducated. She would get on the track somehow; she would find -them somehow; Madam’s young man, and Madam herself. She would give him -up to justice, and shame the woman for whose sake she had been driven -forth. And, as it happened, Russell, taking her ticket for London, found -herself in the same carriage with the man who had come in search of the -stranger at the Red Lion, and acquired an amount of information and -communicated a degree of zeal which stimulated the search on both sides. -When they parted in town she was provided with an address to which to -telegraph instantly on finding any trace of the fugitives, and flung -herself upon the great unknown world of London with a faith and a -virulence which were equally violent. She did not know where to go nor -what to do; she had very little acquaintance with London. The Trevanions -had a town house in a street near Berkeley Square, and all that she knew -was the immediate neighborhood of that dignified centre--of all places -in the world least likely to shelter the fugitives. She went there, -however, in her helplessness, and carried consternation to the bosom of -the charwoman in charge, who took in the strange intelligence vaguely, -and gaped and hoped as it wasn’t true. “So many things is said, and few -of ’em ever comes true,” this philosophical observer said. “But I’ve -come out of the middle of it, and I know it’s true, every word,” she -almost shrieked in her excitement. The charwoman was a little hard of -hearing. “We’ll hope as it’ll all turn out lies--they mostly does,” she -said. This was but one of many rebuffs the woman met with. She had spent -more than a week wandering about London, growing haggard and thin; her -respectable clothes growing shabby, her eyes wild--the want of proper -sleep and proper food making a hollow-eyed spectre of the once smooth -and dignified upper servant--when she was unexpectedly rewarded for all -her pangs and exertions by meeting Jane one morning, sharply and -suddenly, turning round a corner. The two women paused by a mutual -impulse, and then one cried, “What are you doing here?” and the other, -grasping her firmly by the arm, “I’ve caught you at last.” - -“Caught me! Were you looking for me? What do you want? Has anything -happened to the children?” Jane cried, beginning to tremble. - -“The children! how dare you take their names in your mouth, you as is -helping to ruin and shame them? I’ll not let you go now I’ve got you; -oh, don’t think it! I’ll stick to you till I get a policeman.” - -“A policeman to me!” cried poor Jane, who, not knowing what mysterious -powers the law might have, trembled more and more. “I’ve done nothing,” -she said. - -“But them as you are with has done a deal,” cried Russell. “Where is -that young man? Oh, I know-- I know what he’s been and done. I have took -an oath on my Bible that I’ll track him out. If I’m to be driven from my -place and my dear children for Madam’s sake, she shall just pay for it, -I can tell you. You thought I’d put up with it and do nothing, but a -worm will turn. I’ve got it in my power to publish her shame, and I’ll -do it. I know a deal more than I knew when I told master of her -goings-on. But now I’ve got you I’ll stick to you, and them as you’re -with, and I’ll have my revenge,” Russell cried, her wild eyes flaming, -her haggard cheeks flushing; “I’ll have my revenge. Ah!” - -She paused here with a cry of consternation, alarm, dismay, for there -stepped out of a shop hard by, Madam herself, and laid a hand suddenly -upon her arm. - -“Russell,” she said, “I am sorry they have sent you away. I know you -love the children.” At this a convulsive movement passed across her -face, which sent through the trembling, awe-stricken woman a sympathetic -shudder. They were one in this deprivation, though they were enemies. -“You have always hated me, I do not know why: but you love the -children. I would not have removed you from them. I have written to Miss -Rosalind to bid her have you back when--when she is calmer. And you that -have done me so much harm, what do you want with me?” said Madam, -looking with the pathetic smile which threw such a strange light upon -her utterly pale face, upon this ignorant pursuer. - -“I’ve come-- I’ve come”--she gasped, and then stood trembling, unable to -articulate, holding herself up by the grasp she had taken with such -different intentions of Jane’s arm, and gazing with her hollow eyes with -a sort of fascination upon the lady whom at last she had hunted down. - -“I think she is fainting,” Madam said. “Whatever she wants, she has -outdone her strength.” There was a compassion in the tone, which, in -Russell’s weakened state, went through and through her. Her mistress -took her gently by the other arm, and led her into the shop she had just -left. Here they brought her wine and something to eat, of which she had -the greatest need. “My poor woman,” said Madam, “your search for me was -vain, for Mr. John Trevanion knows where to find me at any moment. You -have done me all the harm one woman could do another; what could you -desire more? But I forgive you for my children’s sake. Go back, and -Rosalind will take you again, because you love them; and take care of my -darlings, Russell,” she said, with that ineffable smile of anguish; “say -no ill to them of their mother.” - -“Oh, Madam, kill me!” Russell cried. - -That was the last that was seen in England of Madam Trevanion. The -woman, overcome with passion, remorse, and long fasting and misery, -fainted outright at her mistress’s feet. And when she came to herself -the lady and her maid were both gone, and were seen by her no more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -There is nothing more strange in all the experiences of humanity than -the manner in which a great convulsion either in nature or in human -history ceases after a while to affect the world. Grass grows and -flowers wave over the soil which an earthquake has rent asunder; and the -lives of men are similarly torn in twain without leaving a much more -permanent result. The people whom we see one year crushed by some great -blow, when the next has come have begun to pursue their usual course -again. This means no infidelity of nature, no forgetting; but only the -inevitable progress by which the world keeps going. There is no trouble, -however terrible, that does not yield to the touch of time. - -Some two years after these events Rosalind Trevanion felt herself, -almost against her will, emerging out of the great shadow which had -overwhelmed her life. She had been for a time swallowed up in the needs -of the family, all her powers demanded for the rearrangement of life on -its new basis, and everything less urgent banished from her. But by -degrees the most unnatural arrangements fall into the calm of habit, the -most unlooked-for duties become things of every day. Long before the -period at which this history resumes, it had ceased to be wonderful to -any one that Rosalind should take her place as head of the desolated -house. She assumed unconsciously that position of sister-mother which is -one of the most touching and beautiful that exist, with the ease which -necessity brings--not asking how she could do it, but doing it; as did -the bystanders who criticise every course of action and dictate what can -and what cannot be done, but who all accepted her in her new duties -with a composure which soon made everybody forget how strange, how -unlikely, to the girl those duties were. The disappearance of the -mother, the breaking-up of the house, was no doubt a nine-days’ wonder, -and gave occasion in the immediate district for endless discussions; but -the wonder died out as every wonder dies out. Outside of the county it -was but vaguely known, and to those who professed to tell the details -with authority there was but a dull response; natural sentiment at a -distance being all against the possibility that anything so -extraordinary and odious could be true. “You may depend upon it, a woman -who was going to behave so at the end must have shown signs of it from -the beginning,” people said, and the propagation of the rumor was thus -seriously discouraged. Mrs. Lennox, though she was not wise, had enough -of good sense and good feeling not to tell even to her most intimate -friends the circumstances of her sister-in-law’s disappearance; and this -not so much for Madam’s sake as for that of her brother, whose -extraordinary will appeared to her simple understanding so great a shame -and scandal that she kept it secret for Reginald’s sake. Indeed, all she -did in the matter was for Reginald’s sake. She did not entertain the -confidence in Madam with which Rosalind and John enshrined the fugitive. -To Rosalind, Mrs. Lennox said little on the subject, with a respect for -the girl’s innocence which persons of superior age and experience are -not always restrained by; but that John, a man who knew the world, -should go on as he did, was a thing which exasperated his sister. How he -could persuade himself of Mrs. Trevanion’s innocence was a thing she -could not explain. Why, what could it be? she asked herself, angrily. -Everybody knows that the wisest of men or women are capable of going -wrong for one cause; but what other could account for the flight of a -woman, of a mother from her children, the entire disappearance of her -out of all the scenes of her former life? When her brother told her that -there was no help for it, that in the interests of her children Madam -was compelled to go away, Aunt Sophy said “Stuff!” What was a woman -good for if she could not find some means of eluding such a monstrous -stipulation? “Do you think I would have minded him? I should have -disguised myself, hidden about, done anything rather than desert my -family,” she cried; and when it was suggested to her that Madam was too -honorable, too proud, too high-minded to deceive, Sophy said nothing but -“Stuff!” again. “Do you think anything in the world would make me -abandon my children--if I had any?” she cried. But though she was angry -with John and impatient of Rosalind, she kept the secret. And after a -time all audible comments on the subject died away. “There is something -mysterious about the matter,” people said; “I believe Mrs. Trevanion is -still living.” And then it began to be believed that she was ill and -obliged to travel for her health, which was the best suggestion that -could have been made. - -And Rosalind gradually, but nevertheless fully, came out of the shadow -of that blighting cloud. What is there in human misery which can -permanently crush a heart under twenty? Nothing, at least save the last -and most intolerable of personal losses, and even then only in the case -of a passionate, undisciplined soul or a feeble body. Youth will -overcome everything if it has justice and fresh air and occupation. And -Rosalind made her way out of all the ways of gloom and misery to the sky -and sunshine. Her memory had, indeed, an indelible scar upon it at that -place. She could not turn back and think of the extraordinary mystery -and anguish of that terrible moment without a convulsion of the heart, -and sense that all the foundations of the earth had been shaken. But -happily, at her age, there is not much need of turning back upon the -past. She shivered when the momentary recollection crossed her mind, but -could always throw it off and come back to the present, to the future, -which are always so much more congenial. - -This great catastrophe, which made a sort of chasm between her and her -former life, had given a certain maturity to Rosalind. At twenty she had -already much of the dignity, the self-possession, the seriousness of a -more advanced age. She had something of the air of a young married -woman, a young mother, developed by the early experiences of life. The -mere freshness of girlhood, even when it is most exquisite, has a less -perfect charm than this; and the fact that Rosalind was still a girl, -notwithstanding the sweet and noble gravity of her responsible position, -added to her an exceptional charm. She was supposed by most people to be -five years at least older than she was: and she was the mother of her -brothers and sisters, at once more and less than a mother; perhaps less -anxious, perhaps more indulgent, not old enough to perceive with the -same clearness or from the same point of view, seeing from the level of -the children more than perhaps a mother can. To see her with her little -brother in her lap was the most lovely of pictures. Something more -exquisite even than maternity was in this virgin-motherhood. She was a -better type of the second mother than any wife. This made a sort of halo -around the young creature who had so many responsibilities. But yet in -her heart Rosalind was only a girl; the other half of her had not -progressed beyond where it was before that great crisis. There was -within her a sort of decisive consciousness of the apparent maturity -which she had thus acquired, and she only such a child--a girl at heart. - -In this profound girlish soul of hers, which was her very self, while -the other was more or less the product of circumstances, it still -occurred to Rosalind now and then to wonder how it was that she had -never had a lover. Even this was meant in a manner of her own. Miss -Trevanion of Highcourt had not been without suitors; men who had admired -her beauty or her position. But these were not at all what she meant by -a lover. She meant what an imaginative girl means when such a thought -crosses her mind. She meant Romeo, or perhaps Hamlet--had love been -restored to the possibilities of that noblest of all disenchanted -souls--or even such a symbol as Sir Kenneth. She wondered whether it -would ever be hers to find wandering about the world the other part of -her, him who would understand every thought and feeling, him to whom it -would be needless to speak or to explain, who would know; him for whom -mighty love would cleave in twain the burden of a single pain and part -it, giving half to him. The world, she thought, could not hold together -as it did under the heavens, had it ceased to be possible that men and -women should meet each other so. But such a meeting had never occurred -yet in Rosalind’s experience, and seeing how common it was, how -invariable an occurrence in the experience of all maidens of poetry and -fiction, the failure occasioned her always a little surprise. Had she -never seen any one, met about the world any form, in which she could -embody such a possibility? She did not put this question to herself -plainly, but there was in her imagination a sort of involuntary answer -to it, or rather the ghost of an answer, which would sometimes make -itself known, from without, she thought, more than from within--as if a -face had suddenly looked at her, or a whisper been breathed in her ear. -She did not give any name to this vision or endeavor to identify it. - -But imagination is obstinate and not to be quenched, and in inadvertent -moments she half acknowledged to herself that it had a being and a name. -Who or what he was, indeed, she could not tell; but sometimes in her -imagination the remembered tone of a voice would thrill her ears, or a -pair of eyes would look into hers. This recollection or imagination -would flash upon her at the most inappropriate moments; sometimes when -she was busy with her semi-maternal cares, or full of household -occupation which left her thoughts free--moments when she was without -defence. Indeed, temptation would come upon her in this respect from the -most innocent quarter, from her little brother, who looked up at her -with eyes that were like the eyes of her dream. Was that why he had -become her darling, her favorite, among the children? Oh, no; it was -because he was the youngest, the baby, the one to whom a mother was most -of all wanting. Aunt Sophy, indeed, who was so fond of finding out -likenesses, had said-- And there was a certain truth in it. Johnny’s eyes -were very large and dark, shining out of the paleness of his little -face; he was a delicate child; or perhaps only a pale-faced child -looking delicate, for there never was anything the matter with him. His -eyes were very large for a child, appearing so, perhaps, because he was -himself so little; a child of fine organization, with the most delicate, -pure complexion, and blue veins showing distinctly through the delicate -tissue of his skin. Rosalind felt a sort of dreamy bliss come over her -when Johnny fixed his great, soft eyes upon her, looking up with a -child’s devout attention. She loved the child dearly, was not that -enough? And then there was the suggestion. Likenesses are very curious; -they are so arbitrary, no one can tell how they come; there was a -likeness, she admitted to herself; and then wondered--half wishing it, -half angry with herself for the idea--whether perhaps it was the -likeness to her little brother which had impressed the face of a -stranger so deeply upon her dreams. - -Who was he? Where did he come from? Where, all this long time, for these -many months, had he gone? If it was because of her he had come to the -village, how strange that he should never have appeared again! It was -impossible it could have been for her; yet, if not for her, for whom -could he have come? She asked herself these questions so often that her -vision gradually lost identity and became a tradition, an abstraction, -the true lover after whom she had been wondering. She endowed him with -all the qualities which girls most dearly prize. She talked to him upon -every subject under heaven. In all possible emergencies that arose to -her fancy he came and stood by her and helped her. No real man is ever -so noble, so tender, so generous as such an ideal man can be. And -Rosalind forgot altogether that she had asked herself whether it was -certain that he was a gentleman, the original of this shadowy figure -which had got into her imagination she scarcely could tell how. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Mrs. Lennox’s house was not a great country-house like Highcourt. It was -within a mile of Clifton, a pretty house, set in pretty grounds, with a -few fields about it, and space enough to permit of a sufficient but -modest establishment; horses and dogs, and pets in any number to satisfy -the children. Reginald, indeed, when he came home for the holidays, -somewhat scoffed at the limited household, and declared that there was -scarcely room to breathe. For the young master of Highcourt everything -was small and shabby, but as his holidays were broken by visits to the -houses of his schoolfellows, where young Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt had -many things in his favor, and as he thus managed to get as much shooting -and hunting and other delights as a schoolboy can indulge in, he was, on -the whole, gracious enough to Aunt Sophy and Rosalind, and their limited -ways. The extraordinary changes that followed his father’s death had -produced a curious effect upon the boy; there had been, indeed, a moment -of impulse in which he had declared his intention of standing by his -mother, but a fuller understanding of all that was involved had -summarily checked this. The youthful imagination, when roused by the -thought of wealth and importance, is as insatiable in these points as it -is when inflamed by the thirst for pleasure, and it is, perhaps, more -difficult to give up or consent to modify greatness which you have never -had, but have hoped for, than to give up an actual possession. Reginald -had felt this importance as his father’s heir so much, that the idea of -depriving himself of it for the sake of his mother brought a sudden damp -and chill all over his energies. He was silent when he heard what a -sacrifice was necessary, even though it was a sacrifice in imagination -only, the reality being unknown to him. And from that moment the thing -remarkable in him was that he had never mentioned his mother’s name. - -With the other children this effect had at the end of the year been -almost equally attained, but by degrees; they had ceased to refer to her -as they had ceased to refer to their father. Both parents seemed to have -died together to these little ones. The one, like the other, faded as -the dead do out of their personal sphere, and ceased to have any place -in their life. They said Rosalind now, when they used to say mamma. But -with Reginald the effect was different--young though he was, in his -schoolboy sphere he had a certain knowledge of the world. He knew that -it was something intolerable when a fellow’s family was in everybody’s -mouth, and his mother was discussed and talked of, and there was a sort -of half-fury against her in his mind for subjecting him to this. The -pangs which a proud boy feels in such circumstances are difficult to -fathom, for their force is aggravated by the fact that he never betrays -them. The result was that he never mentioned her, never asked a -question, put on a mien of steel when anything was said which so much as -suggested her existence, and from the moment of his departure from -Highcourt ignored altogether the name and possibility of a mother. He -was angry with the very name. - -Sophy was the only one who caused a little embarrassment now and then by -her recollections of the past life of Highcourt and the household there. -But Sophy was not favorable to her mother, which is a strange thing to -say, and had no lingering tenderness to smother; she even went so far -now and then as to launch a jibe at Rosalind on the subject of mamma. As -for the little ones, they already remembered her no more. The Elms, -which was the suburban title of Mrs. Lennox’s small domain, became the -natural centre of their little lives, and they forgot the greater and -more spacious house in which they were born. And now that the second -year was nearly accomplished since the catastrophe happened, natural -gayety and consolation had come back. Rosalind went out to such -festivities as offered. She spent a few weeks in London, and saw a -little of society. The cloud had rolled away from her young horizon, -leaving only a dimness and mist of softened tears. And the Elms was, in -its way, a little centre of society. Aunt Sophy was very hospitable. She -liked the pleasant commotion of life around her, and she was pleased to -feel the stir of existence which the presence of a girl brings to such a -house. Rosalind was not a beauty so remarkable as to draw admirers and -suitors from every quarter of the compass. These are rare in life, -though we are grateful to meet so many of them in novels; but she was -extremely pleasant to look upon, fair and sweet as so many English girls -are, with a face full of feeling, and enough of understanding and poetry -to give it something of an ideal charm. And though it was, as we have -said, the wonder of her life that she had never, like young ladies in -novels, had a lover, yet she was not without admiration nor without -suitors, quite enough to maintain her self-respect and position in the -world. - -One of these was the young Hamerton who was a visitor at Highcourt at -the opening of this history. He was the son of another county family of -the Highcourt neighborhood; not the eldest son, indeed, but still not -altogether to be ranked among the detrimentals, since he was to have his -mother’s money, a very respectable fortune. And he was by way of being a -barrister, although not so unthoughtful of the claims of others as to -compete for briefs with men who had more occasion for them. He had come -to Clifton for the hunting, not, perhaps, without a consciousness of -Rosalind’s vicinity. He had not shown at all during the troubles at -Highcourt or for some time after, being too much disturbed and alarmed -by his own discovery to approach the sorrowful family. But by degrees -this feeling wore off, and a girl who was under Mrs. Lennox’s wing, and -who, after all, was not “really the daughter” of the erring woman, would -have been most unjustly treated had she been allowed to suffer in -consequence of the mystery attached to Madam Trevanion and her -disappearance from the world. Mrs. Lennox had known Roland Hamerton’s -father as well as Rosalind knew himself. The families had grown up -together, calling each other by their Christian names, on that -preliminary brother-and-sister footing which is so apt with opportunity -to grow into something closer. And Roland had always thought Rosalind -the prettiest girl about. When he got over the shock of the Highcourt -mystery his heart had come back to her with a bound. And if he came to -Clifton for the hunting instead of to any other centre, it was with a -pleasant recollection that the Elms was within walking distance, and -that there he was always likely to find agreeable occupation for “off” -days. On such occasions, and even on days which were not “off” days, he -would come, sometimes to luncheon, sometimes in the afternoon, with the -very frequent consequence of sending off a message to Clifton for “his -things,” and staying all night. He was adopted, in short, as a sort of -son or nephew of the house. - -It is undeniable that a visitor of this sort (or even more than one) is -an addition to the cheerfulness of a house in the country. It may, -perhaps, be dangerous to his own peace of mind, or even, if he is -frivolous, to the comfort of a daughter of the same, but so long as he -is on these easy terms, with no definite understanding one way or the -other, he is a pleasant addition. The least amiable of men is obliging -and pleasant in such circumstances. He is on his promotion. His _raison -d’être_ is his power of making himself agreeable. When he comes to have -a definite position as an accepted lover, everything is changed again, -and he may be as much in the way as he once was handy and desirable; but -in his first stage he is always an addition, especially when the -household is chiefly composed of women. Hamerton fell into this pleasant -place with even more ease than usual. He was already so familiar with -them all, that everything was natural in the arrangement. And Mrs. -Lennox, there was no doubt, wished the young man well. It would not be a -brilliant match, but it would be “quite satisfactory.” Had young Lord -Elmore come a-wooing instead of Roland, that would have been, no doubt, -more exciting. But Lord Elmore paid his homage in another direction, and -his antecedents were not quite so good as Hamerton’s, who was one of -those young men who have never given their parents an anxiety--a -qualification which, it is needless to say, was dear above every other -to Aunt Sophy’s heart. - -He was seated with them in the drawing-room at the Elms on an afternoon -of November. It had been a day pleasant enough for the time of year, but -not for hunting men--a clear frosty day, with ice in all the ditches, -and the ground hard and resounding; a day when it is delightful to walk, -though not to ride. Rosalind had met him strolling towards the house -when she was out for her afternoon walk. Perhaps he was not so sorry for -himself as he professed to the ladies. “I shall bore you to death,” he -said; “I shall always be coming, for I see now we are in for a ten days’ -frost, which is the most dolorous prospect--at least, it would be if I -had not the Elms to fall back upon.” He made this prognostication of -evil with a beaming face. - -“You seem on the whole to take it cheerfully,” Mrs. Lennox said. - -“Yes, with the Elms to fall back upon; I should not take it cheerfully -otherwise.” - -“But you were here on Saturday, Roland, when the meet was at Barley -Wood, and everybody was out,” cried little Sophy. “I don’t think you are -half a hunting man. I shouldn’t miss a day if it were me; nor Reginald -wouldn’t,” she added, with much indifference to grammar. - -“It is all the fault of the Elms,” the young man said, with a laugh. - -“I don’t know what you find at the Elms. Reginald says we are so dull -here. I think so too--nothing but women; and you that have got two or -three clubs and can go where you like.” - -“You shall go to the clubs, Sophy, instead of me.” - -“That is what I should like,” said Miss Sophy. “Everybody says men are -cleverer than women, and I am very fond of good talk. I like to hear you -talk of horses and things; and of betting a pot on Bucephalus--” - -“Sophy! where did you hear such language? You must be sent back to the -nursery,” cried Mrs. Lennox, “if you go on like that.” - -“Well,” said Sophy, “Reginald had a lot on Bucephalus: he told me so. He -says it’s dreadful fun. You are kept in such a state till the last -moment, not knowing which is to win. Sometimes the favorite is simply -nowhere, and if you happen to have drawn a dark horse--” - -“Sophy! I can’t allow such language.” - -“And the favorite has been cooked, don’t you know, or come to grief in -the stable,” cried Sophy, breathless, determined to have it out, “then -you win a pot of money! It was Reginald told me all that. I don’t know -myself, more’s the pity; and because I am a girl I don’t suppose I shall -ever know,” the little reprobate said, regretfully. - -“Dear me, I never thought those things were permitted at Eton,” said -Mrs. Lennox. “I always thought boys were safe there. Afterwards, one -knows, not a moment can be calculated upon. That is what is so nice -about you, Roland; you never went into anything of that kind. I wish so -much, if you are here at Christmas, you would give Reginald a little -advice.” - -“I don’t much believe in advice, Mrs. Lennox. Besides, I’m not so -immaculate as you think me; I’ve had in my day a pot on something or -other, as Sophy says--” - -“Sophy must not say those sort of things,” said her aunt. “Rosalind, -give us some tea. It is quite cold enough to make the fire most -agreeable and the tea a great comfort. And if you have betted you have -seen the folly of it, and you could advise him all the better. That is -always the worst with boys when they have women to deal with. They think -we know nothing. Whether it is because we have not education, or because -we have not votes, or what, I can’t tell. But Reginald for one does not -pay the least attention. He thinks he knows ever so much better than I -do. And John is abroad; he doesn’t care very much for John either. He -calls him an old fogy; he says the present generation knows better than -the last. Did you ever hear such impertinence? And he is only seventeen. -I like two lumps of sugar, Rosalind. But I thought at Eton they ought to -be safe.” - -“I suppose you are going home for Christmas, Roland? Shall you all be at -home? Alice and her baby, and every one of you?” Rosalind breathed -softly a little sigh. “I don’t like Christmas,” she said; “it is all -very well so long as you are quite young, but when you begin to get -scattered and broken up--” - -“My dear, I am far from being quite young, and I hope I have been -scattered as much as anybody, and had every sort of thing to put up -with, but I never grow too old or too dull for Christmas.” - -“Ah, Aunt Sophy, you! But then you are not like anybody else; you take -things so sweetly, even Rex and his impertinence.” - -“Christmas is pleasant enough,” said young Hamerton. “We are not so much -scattered but that we can all get back, and I like it well enough. But,” -he added, “if one was wanted elsewhere, or could be of use, I am not -such a fanatic for home but that I could cut it once in a way, if there -was anything, don’t you know, Mrs. Lennox, that one would call a duty; -like licking a young cub into shape, or helping a--people you are fond -of.” He blushed and laughed, in the genial, confusing glow of the fire, -and cast a glance at Rosalind to see whether she noted his offer, and -understood the motive of it. “People one is fond of;” did she think that -meant Aunt Sophy? There was a pleasant mingling of obscurity and light -even when the cheerful flame leaped up and illuminated the room: -something in its leaping and uncertainty made a delightful shelter. You -might almost stare at the people you were fond of without being betrayed -as the cold daylight betrays you; and as for the heat which he felt -suffuse his countenance, that was altogether unmarked in the genial glow -of the cheerful fire. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -In an easy house, where punctuality is not rampant, the hour before -dinner is pleasant to young people. The lady of the house is gone to -dress. If she is beginning to feel the weight of years, she perhaps -likes a nap before dinner, and in any case she will change her dress in -a leisurely manner and likes to have plenty of time; and the children -have been carried off to the nursery that their toilet may be attended -to, and no hurried call afterwards interfere with the tying of their -sashes. The young lady of the house is not moved by either of these -motives. Five minutes is enough for her, she thinks and says, and the -room is so cosey and the half light so pleasant, and it is the hour for -confidences. If she has another girl with her, they will drift into -beginnings of the most intimate narrative, which must be finished in -their own rooms after everybody has gone to bed; and if it is not a -girl, but the other kind of companion, those confidences are perhaps -even more exciting. Rosalind knew what Roland Hamerton wanted, vaguely: -she was, on the surface, not displeased with his devotions. She had no -intention of coming to so very decided a step as marriage, nor did she -for a moment contemplate him as the lover whose absence surprised her. -But he was nice enough. She liked well enough to talk to him. They were -like brother and sister, she would have said. “Roland--why, I have known -him all my life,” she would have exclaimed indignantly to any one who -had blamed her for “encouraging” this poor young man. Indeed, Rosalind -was so little perfect that she had already on several occasions defended -herself in this way, and had not the slightest intention of accepting -Roland, and yet allowed him to persuade her to linger and talk after -Aunt Sophy had gone up-stairs. This was quite unjustifiable, and a more -high-minded young woman would not have done it. But poor Rosalind, -though her life had been crossed by a strain of tragedy and though her -feelings were very deep and her experiences much out of the common, and -her mind capable and ready to respond to very high claims, was yet not -the ideal of a high-minded girl. It is to be hoped that she was -unacquainted with flirtation and above it, but yet she did not -dislike--so long as she could skilfully keep him from anything definite -in the way of a proposal, anything that should be compromising and -uncomfortable to sit and listen to--the vague adoration which was -implied in Hamerton’s talk, and to feel that the poor young fellow was -laying himself out to please her. It did please her, and it amused -her--which was more. It was sport to her, though it might be death to -him. She did not believe that there was anything sufficiently serious in -young Hamerton’s feelings or in his character to involve anything like -death, and she judged with some justice that he preferred the happiness -of the moment, even if it inspired him with false hopes, to the collapse -of all those hopes which a more conscientious treatment would have -brought about. Accordingly, Rosalind lingered in the pleasant twilight. -She sent her aunt’s butler, Saunders, away when he appeared to light the -lamps. - -“Not yet, Saunders,” she said, “we like the firelight,” in a manner -which made Roland’s heart jump. It seemed to that deceived young man -that nothing but a flattering response of sentiment in her mind would -have made Rosalind, like himself, enjoy the firelight. “That was very -sweet of you,” he said. - -“What was sweet of me?” The undeserved praise awakened a compunction in -her. “There is nothing good in saying what is true. I do like talking -by this light. Summer evenings are different, they are always a little -sad; but the fire is cheerful, and it makes people confidential.” - -“If I could think you wanted me to be confidential, Rosalind!” - -“Oh, I do; everybody! I like to talk about not only the outside, but -what people are really thinking of. One hears so much of the outside: -all the runs you have had, and how Captain Thornton jumps, and Miss -Plympton keeps the lead.” - -“If you imagine that I admire Miss Plympton--” - -“I never thought anything of the kind. Why shouldn’t you admire her? -Though she is a little too fond of hunting, she is a nice girl, and I -like her. And she is very pretty. You might do a great deal worse, -Roland,” said Rosalind, with maternal gravity, “than admire Ethel -Plympton. She is quite a nice girl, not only when she is on horseback. -But she would not have anything to say to you.” - -“That is just as well,” said the young man, “for hers is not the sort of -shrine I should ever worship at. The kind of girl I like doesn’t hunt, -though she goes like a bird when it strikes her fancy. She is the queen -at home, she makes a room like this into heaven. She makes a man feel -that there’s nothing in life half so sweet as to be by her, whatever she -is doing. She would make hard work and poverty and all that sort of -thing delightful. She is--” - -“A dreadful piece of perfection!” said Rosalind, with a slightly -embarrassed laugh. “Don’t you know nobody likes to have that sort of -person held up to them? One always suspects girls that are too good. But -I hope you sometimes think of other things than girls,” she added, with -an air of delightful gravity and disapproval. “I have wanted all this -long time to know what you were going to do; and to find instead only -that hyperbolical fiend, you know, that talks of nothing but ladies, is -disappointing. What would you think of me,” Rosalind continued, turning -upon him with still more imposing dignity, “if I talked to you of -nothing but gentlemen?” - -“Rosalind!--that’s blasphemy to think of; besides that I should feel -like getting behind a hedge and shooting all of them,” the young man -cried. - -“Yes, it is a sort of blasphemy; you would all think a girl a dreadful -creature if she did so. But you think you are different, and that it -doesn’t matter; that is what everybody says; one law for men and one for -women. But I, for one, will never give in to that. I want to know what -you are going to do.” - -“And suppose,” he cried, “that I were to return the question, since you -say there must not be one law for men and one for women. Rosalind, what -are you going to do?” - -“I?” she said, and looked at him with surprise. “Alas! you know I have -my work cut out for me, Roland. I have to bring up the children; they -are very young, and it will be a great many years before they can do -without me; there is no question about me. Perhaps it is a good thing to -have your path quite clear before you, so that you can’t make any -mistake about it,” she added, with a little sigh. - -“But, Rosalind, that is completely out of the question, don’t you know. -Sacrifice yourself and all your life to those children--why, it would be -barbarous; nobody would permit it.” - -“I don’t know,” said Rosalind, “who has any right to interfere. You -think Uncle John, perhaps? Uncle John would never think of anything so -foolish. It is much less his business than it is mine; and you forget -that I am old enough to judge for myself.” - -“Rosalind, you can’t really intend anything so dreadful! Oh, at present -you are so young, you are all living in the same house, it does not make -so much difference. But to sacrifice yourself, to give up your own life, -to relinquish everything for a set of half--” - -“You had better not make me angry,” she said. He had sprung to his feet -and was pacing about in great excitement, his figure relieved against -the blaze of the fire, while she sat in the shadow at one side, -protected from the glow. “What am I giving up? In the first place, I -know nothing that I am giving up; and I confess that it amuses me, -Roland, to see you so excited about my life. I should like to hear what -you are going to do with your own.” - -“Can’t you understand?” he cried, hastily and in confusion, “that the -one might--that the one might--involve perhaps--” And here the young man -stopped and looked helplessly at her, not daring to risk what he had for -the uncertainty of something better. But it was very hard, when he had -gone so far, to refrain. - -“Might involve perhaps-- No, I can’t understand,” Rosalind said, almost -with unconcern. “What I do understand is that you can’t hunt forever if -you are going to be any good in life. And you don’t even hunt as a man -ought that means to make hunting his object. Do something, Roland, as if -you meant it!--that is what I am always telling you.” - -“And don’t I always tell you the same thing, that I am no hero. I can’t -hold on to an object, as you say. What do you mean by an object? I want -a happy life. I should like very well to be kind to people, and do my -duty and all that, but as for an object, Rosalind! If you expect me to -become a reformer or a philanthropist or anything of that sort, or make -a great man of myself--” - -Rosalind shook her head softly in her shadowed corner. “I don’t expect -that,” she said, with a tone of regret. “I might have done so, perhaps, -at one time. At first one thinks every boy can do great things, but that -is only for a little while, when one is without experience.” - -“You see you don’t think very much of my powers, for all you say,” he -cried, hastily, with the tone of offence which the humblest can scarcely -help assuming when taken at his own low estimate. Roland knew very well -that he had no greatness in him, but to have the fact acknowledged with -this regretful certainty was somewhat hard. - -“That is quite a different matter,” said Rosalind. “Only a few men (I -see now) can be great. I know nobody of that kind,” she added, with once -more that tone of regret, shaking her head. “But you can always do -something, not hang on amusing yourself, for that is all you ever do, so -far as I can see.” - -“What does your Uncle John do?” he cried; “you have a great respect for -him, and so have I; he is just the best man going. But what does he do? -He loafs about; he goes out a great deal when he is in town; he goes to -Scotland for the grouse, he goes to Homburg for his health, he comes -down and sees you, and then back to London again. Oh, I think that’s all -right, but if I am to take him for my example--and I don’t know where I -could find a better--” - -“There is no likeness between your case and his. Uncle John is old, he -has nothing particular given him to do; he is--well, he is Uncle John. -But you, Roland, you are just my age.” - -“I’m good five years older, if not more.” - -“What does that matter? You are my own age, or, according to all rules -of comparison between boys and girls, a little younger than me. You have -got to settle upon something. I am not like many people,” said Rosalind, -loftily; “I don’t say do this or do that; I only say, for Heaven’s sake -do something, Roland; don’t be idle all your life.” - -“I should not mind so much if you did say do this or do that. Tell me -something to do, Rosalind, and I’ll do it for your sake.” - -“Oh! that is all folly; that belongs to fairy tales--a shawl that will -go through a ring, or a little dog that will go into a nutshell, or a -golden apple. They are all allegories, I suppose; the right thing, -however, is to do what is right for the sake of what is right, and not -because any one in particular tells you.” - -“Shall I set up in chambers, and try to get briefs?” said Roland. “But -then I have enough to live on, and half the poor beggars at the bar -haven’t; and don’t you think it would be taking an unfair advantage, -when I can afford to do without and they can’t, and when everybody knows -there isn’t half enough business to keep all going? I ask you, Rosalind, -do you think that would be fair?” - -Here the monitress paused, and did not make her usual eager reply. “I -don’t know that it is right to consider that sort of thing, Roland. You -see, it would be good for you to try for briefs, and then probably the -other men who want them more might be--cleverer than you are.” - -“Oh, very well,” cried Roland, who had taken a chair close to his -adviser, springing up with natural indignation; “if it is only by way of -mortification, as a moral discipline, that you want me to go in for bar -work.” - -She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. “Oh, no! it would only be -fair competition. Perhaps you would be cleverer than they--than _some_ -of them.” - -“That’s a very doubtful perhaps,” he cried, with a laugh. But he was -mollified and sat down again--the touch was very conciliatory. “The -truth is,” he said, getting hold of the hand, which she withdrew very -calmly after a moment, “I am in no haste; and,” with timidity, “the -truth is, Rosalind, that I shall never do work anyhow by myself. If I -had some one with me to stir me up and keep me going, and if I knew it -was for her interest as well as for my own--” - -“You mean if you were to marry?” said Rosalind, in a matter-of-fact -tone, rising from her chair. “I don’t approve of a man who always has to -be stirred up by his wife; but marry by all means, Roland, if you think -that is the best way. Nobody would have the least objection; in short, I -am sure all your best friends would like it, and I, for one, would give -her the warmest welcome. But still I should prefer, you know, first to -see you acting for yourself. Why, there is the quarter chiming, and I -promised to let Saunders know when we went to dress. Aunt Sophy will be -down-stairs directly. Ring the bell, and let us run; we shall be late -again. But the firelight is so pleasant.” She disappeared out of the -room before she had done speaking, flying up-stairs to escape the -inevitable response, and left poor Roland, tantalized and troubled, to -meet the gloomy looks of Saunders, who reminded him that there was but -twelve minutes and a half to dress in, and that Mrs. Lennox was very -particular about the fish. Saunders took liberties with the younger -visitors, and he too had known young Mr. Hamerton all his life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -It was not on that day, but the next, that Uncle John arrived so -suddenly, bringing with him the friend whom he had picked up in -Switzerland. This was a man still young, but not so young as Roland -Hamerton, with looks a little worn, as of a man who had been, as he -himself said, “knocking about the world.” Perhaps, indeed, they all -thought afterwards, it was his dress which suggested this idea; for when -he appeared dressed for the evening he turned out in reality a handsome -man, with the very effective contrast of hair already gray, waving -upwards from a countenance not old enough to justify that change, and -lighted up with dark eyes full of light and humor and life. The hair -which had changed its color so early had evidently been very dark in his -youth, and Mrs. Lennox, who was always a little romantic, could not help -suggesting, when Rosalind and she awaited the gentlemen in the -drawing-room after dinner, that Mr. Rivers might be an example of one of -the favorite devices of fiction, the turning gray in a single night, -which is a possibility of which every one has heard. “I should not -wonder if he has had a very remarkable life,” Aunt Sophy said. “No doubt -the servants and common people think him quite old, but when you look -into it, it is a young face.” She took her chair by the fireside, and -arranged all her little paraphernalia, and unfolded her crewel-work, and -had done quite half a leaf before she burst forth again, as if without -any interval, “though full of lines, and what you might call wrinkles -if you did not know better! In my young days such a man would have been -thought like Lara or Conrad, or one of Byron’s other heroes. I don’t -know who to compare him to nowadays, for men of that sort are quite out -of fashion; but he is quite a hero, I have a conviction, and saved -John’s life.” - -“He says Uncle John was in no danger, and that he did nothing that a -guide or a servant might not have done.” - -“My dear,” said Aunt Sophy, “that is what they always say; the more they -do the less they will give in to it.” - -“To call that old man like the Wandering Jew a hero!” said little Sophy. -“Yes, I have seen him. I saw him arrive with Uncle John. He looked quite -old and shabby; oh, not a bit like Lara, whose hair was jet-black, and -who scowled when he looked at you.” - -“Why, how can you tell, you little-- Rosalind, I am afraid Miss Robinson -must be romantic, for Sophy knows--oh, a great deal more than a little -girl ought to know.” - -“It was in your room that I found ‘Lara,’” said Sophy, “and the -‘Corsair’ too; I have read them all. Oh, Miss Robinson never reads them; -she reads little good books where everybody dies. I do not admire Mr. -Rivers at all, and if Uncle John should intend to give him one of us -because he has saved his life, I hope it will not be me.” - -“Sophy, I shall send you to bed if you talk so. Give him one of you! I -suppose you think you are in a fairy tale. Mr. Rivers would laugh if you -were offered to him. He would think it was a curious reward.” - -“He might like Rosalind better, perhaps, now, but Rosalind has gone off, -Aunt Sophy. Ferriss says so. She is getting rather old. Don’t you know -she is in her twenty-first year?” - -“Rosalind! why, I never saw her looking better in her life. Ferriss -shall be sent away if she talks such impertinence. And she is just -twenty! Going off! she is not the least going off: her complexion is -just beautiful, and so fresh. I don’t know what you mean, you or -Ferriss either!” Mrs. Lennox cried. She had always a little inclination -to believe what was suggested to her; and, notwithstanding the complete -assurance of her words, she followed Rosalind, who was moving about at -the other end of the room, with eyes that were full of sudden alarm. - -“And I am in my thirteenth year,” said Sophy; “it sounds much better -than to say only twelve. I shall improve, but Rosalind will not improve. -If he were sensible, he would like me best.” - -“Don’t let your sister hear you talk such nonsense, Sophy: and remember -that I forbid you to read the books in my room without asking me first. -There are things that are very suitable for me, or even for Rosalind, -but not for you. And what are you doing down-stairs at this hour, Sophy? -I did not remember the hour, but it is past your bedtime. Miss Robinson -should not let you have so much of your own way.” - -“It was because of Uncle John,” said Rosalind. “What has she been saying -about Lara and the Corsair? I could not hear, Saunders made so much -noise with the tea. Here is your tea, Aunt Sophy, though you know Dr. -Beaton says you ought not to take it after dinner, and that it keeps you -from sleeping.” - -“Dr. Beaton goes upon the new-fashioned rules, my dear,” said Mrs. -Lennox. “It never keeps me from my sleep; nothing does that, thank God. -It is the young people that are so delicate nowadays, that can’t take -this and that. I wonder if John has any news of Dr. Beaton. He had a -great many fads like that about the tea, but he was very nice. What a -comfort he was to poor Reginald, and took so much anxiety off Gra--” - -“I declare,” Aunt Sophy cried, coloring and coughing, “I have caught -cold, though I have not been out of the house since the cold weather set -in. My dear, I am so sorry,” she added in an undertone; “I know I should -not have said a word--” - -“I have never been of that opinion,” said Rosalind, shaking her head -sadly. “I think you are all taking the wrong way.” - -“For Heaven’s sake don’t say a word, Rosalind; with John coming in, and -that little thing with ears as sharp--” - -“Is it me that have ears so sharp, Aunt Sophy? It is funny to hear you -talk. You think I don’t know anything, but I know everything. I know why -Roland Hamerton is always coming here; and I know why Mr. Blake never -comes, but only the old gentleman. And, Rosalind, you had better make up -your mind and take some one, for you are getting quite _passée_, and you -will soon be an old maid.” - -“Sophy! if you insult your sister--” - -“Do you think that is insulting me?” Rosalind said. “I believe I shall -be an old maid. That would suit me best, and it would be best for the -children, who will want me for a long time.” - -“My dear,” said Aunt Sophy, solemnly, “there are some things I will -never consent to, and one of them is, a girl like you making such a -sacrifice. That is what I will never give in to. Oh, go away, Sophy, you -are a perfect nuisance! No, no, I will never give in to it. For such a -sacrifice is always repented of. When the children grow up they will not -be a bit grateful to you; they will never think it was for them you did -it. They will talk of you as if it was something laughable, and as if -you could not help it. An old maid! Yes, it is intended for an insult, -and I won’t have it, any more than I will have you do it, Rosalind.” - -“Oh, Uncle John,” cried the _enfant terrible_, “there is Aunt Sophy with -tears in her eyes because I said Rosalind was going to be an old maid. -But it is not anything so very dreadful, is it? Why, Uncle John, you are -an old maid.” - -“I don’t think Rosalind’s prospects need distress you, Sophy,” said -Uncle John. “We can take care of her in any case. She will not want your -valuable protection.” - -“Oh, I was not thinking of myself; I don’t mind at all,” said Sophy; -“but only she is getting rather old. Don’t you see a great difference, -Uncle John? She is in her twenty-first year.” - -“I shall not lose hope till she has completed her thirty-third,” said -Uncle John. “You may run away, Sophy; you are young enough, fortunately, -to be sent to bed.” - -“I am in my thirteenth,” said Sophy, resisting every step of her way to -the door, dancing in front of her uncle, who was directing her towards -it. When Sophy found that resistance was vain, she tried entreaty. - -“Oh, Uncle John, don’t send me away! Rosalind promised I should sit up -to-night because you were coming home.” - -“Then Rosalind must take the consequences,” said John Trevanion. All -this time the stranger had been standing silent, with a slight smile on -his face, watching the whole party, and forming those unconscious -conclusions with which we settle everybody’s character and qualities -when we come into a new place. This little skirmish was all in his -favor, as helping him to a comprehension of the situation; the saucy -child, the indulgent old aunt, the disapproving guardian, of whom alone -Sophy was a little afraid, made a simple group enough. But when he -turned to the subject of the little disturbance, he found in Rosalind’s -smile a curious light thrown upon the altercation. Was she in real -danger of becoming an old maid? He thought her looking older than the -child had said, a more gracious and perfect woman than was likely to be -the subject of such a controversy; and he saw, by the eager look and -unnecessary indignation of Hamerton, sufficient evidence that the fate -of the elder sister was by no means so certain as Sophy thought, and -that, at all events, it was in her own hands. The young fellow had -seemed to Mr. Rivers a pleasant young fellow enough in the after-dinner -talk, but when he thus involuntarily coupled him with Rosalind, his -opinion changed in a curious way. The young man was not good enough for -her. A touch of indignation mingled, he could not tell why, in this -conclusion; indignation against unconscious Roland, who aspired to one -so much above him, and at the family who were so little aware that this -girl was the only one of them the least remarkable. He smiled at -himself afterwards for the earnestness with which he decided all this; -settling the character of people whom he had never seen before in so -unjustifiable a fashion. The little new world thus revealed to him had -nothing very novel in it. The only interesting figure was the girl who -was in her twenty-first year. She was good enough for the heroine of a -romance of a higher order than any that could be involved in the mild -passion of young Hamerton; and it pleased the stranger to think, from -the unconcerned way in which Rosalind looked at her admirer, that she -was evidently of this opinion too. - -“Rosalind,” said John Trevanion, after the episode of Sophy was over, -and she was safely dismissed to bed, “will you show Rivers the -miniatures? He is a tremendous authority on art.” - -“Bring the little lamp then, Uncle John; there is not light enough. We -are very proud of them ourselves, but if Mr. Rivers is a great -authority, perhaps they will not please him so much.” - -She took up the lamp herself as she spoke, and its light gave a soft -illumination to her face, looking up at him with a smile. It was certain -that there was nothing so interesting here as she was. The miniatures! -well, yes, they were not bad miniatures. He suggested a name as the -painter of the best among them which pleased John Trevanion, and fixed -the date in a way which fell in entirely with family traditions. Perhaps -he would not have been so gracious had the exhibitor been less -interesting. He took the lamp, which she had insisted upon holding, out -of her hand when the inspection was done, and set it down upon a table -which was at some distance from the fireside group. It was a -writing-table, with indications upon it of the special ownership of -Rosalind. But this he could not be supposed to know. He thought it would -be pleasant, however, to detain her here in conversation, apart from the -others who were so much more ordinary, for he was a man who liked to -appropriate to himself the best of everything. And fortune favored his -endeavors. As he put down the lamp his eye was caught by a photograph -framed in a sort of shrine, which stood upon the table. The doors of the -little shrine were open, and he stooped to look at the face within, at -the sight of which he uttered an exclamation. “I know that lady very -well,” he said. - -In a moment the courteous attention which Rosalind had been giving him -turned into eager interest. She made a hurried step forward, clasped her -hands together, and raised to him eyes which all at once had filled with -sudden tragic meaning, anxiety, and suspense. If there had seemed to him -before much more in her than in any of the others, there was a -hundredfold more now. He seemed in a moment to have got at the very -springs of her life. “Oh, where, where have you seen her? When did you -see her? Tell me all you know,” Rosalind cried. She turned to him, -betraying in her every gesture an excess of suddenly awakened feeling, -and waited breathless, repeating her inquiry with her eyes. - -“I was afraid, from the way in which her portrait was framed, that -perhaps she was no longer--” - -Rosalind gave a low cry, following the very movements of his lips with -her eager eyes. Then she exclaimed, “No, no, she must be living, or we -should have heard.” - -“What is it, Rosalind?” said John Trevanion, looking somewhat pale and -anxious too, as he turned round to join them. - -“Uncle John, Mr. Rivers knows her. He is going to tell me something.” - -“But really I have nothing to tell, Miss Trevanion. I fear I have -excited your interest on false pretences. It is such an interesting -face--so beautiful in its way.” - -“Oh, yes, yes.” - -“I met the lady last year in Spain. I cannot say that I know her, though -I said so in the surprise of the moment. One could not see her without -being struck with her appearance.” - -“Oh, yes, yes!” Rosalind cried again, eagerly, with her eyes demanding -more. - -“I met her several times. They were travelling out of the usual routes. -I have exchanged a few chance words with her at the door of a hotel, or -on the road, changing horses. I am sorry to say that was all, Miss -Trevanion.” - -“Last year; that is later than we have heard. And was she well? Was she -very sad? Did she say anything? But, oh, how could she say anything? for -she could not tell,” cried Rosalind, her eyes filling, “that you were -coming here.” - -“Hush, Rosalind. You say _they_, Rivers. She was not alone, then?” - -“Alone? oh, no, there was a man with her. I never could,” said Rivers, -lightly, “make out who he was--more like a son or brother than her -husband. But, to be sure, you who know the lady--” - -He paused, entirely unable to account for the effect he had produced. -Rosalind had grown as pale as marble; her mouth quivered, her hands -trembled. She gave him the most pathetic, reproachful look, as a woman -might have done whom he had stabbed unawares, and, getting up quickly -from his side, went away with an unsteady, wavering movement, as if it -were all her strength could do to get out of the room. Hamerton rushed -forward to open the door for her, but he was too late, and he too came -to look at Rivers with inquiring, indignant looks, as if to say, What -have you done to her? “What have I done--what is wrong, Trevanion? Have -I said anything I ought not to have said?” Rivers cried. - -The only answer John Trevanion made was to drop down upon the seat -Rosalind had left, with a suppressed groan, and to cover his face with -his hands. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -Rosalind came down to breakfast next morning at the usual hour. She was -the most important member of the household party, and everything -depended upon her. Sometimes Aunt Sophy would have a little cold and did -not appear. She considered it was her right to take her leisure in the -mornings; but Rosalind was like the mother of the young ones, and -indispensable. Rivers had come down early, which is an indiscreet thing -for a stranger to do in a house with which he is unacquainted. He felt -this when Rosalind came into the breakfast-room, and found Sophy, full -of excitement and delight in thus taking the most important place, -entertaining him. He thought Rosalind looked at him with a sort of -question in her eyes, which she turned away the next moment; but -afterwards put force upon herself and came up to him, bidding him -good-morning. He was so much interested that he felt he could follow the -processes in her mind; that she reproved herself for her distaste to -him, and said within herself, it is no fault of his. He did not yet at -all know what he had done, but conjectured that the woman whose -photograph was on Rosalind’s table must be some dear friend or relation -who had either made an imprudent marriage, or, still worse, “gone -wrong.” It was the mention of the man who had been with her which had -done all the mischief. He wished that he had bitten his tongue rather -than made that unfortunate disclosure, which evidently had plunged them -into trouble. But then, how was he to know? As for Rosalind, her pain -was increased and complicated by finding this new visitor with the -children; Sophy, her eyes dancing with excitement and pleasure, doing -her utmost to entertain him. Sophy had that complete insensibility which -is sometimes to be seen in a clever child whose satisfaction with her -own cleverness overbalances all feeling. She was just as likely as not -to have poured forth all the family history into this new-comer’s ears; -to have let him know that mamma had gone away when papa died, and that -nobody knew where she had gone. This gave Rosalind an additional alarm, -but overcame her repugnance to address the stranger who had brought news -so painful, for it was better at once to check Sophy’s revelations, -whatever they might have been. That lively little person turned -immediately upon her sister, knowing by instinct that her moment of -importance was over. “What a ghost you do look, Rosie!” she cried; “you -look as if you had been crying. Just as I do when Miss Robinson is -nasty. But nobody can scold you except Aunt Sophy, and she never does; -though--oh, I forgot, there is Uncle John.” - -“Miss Robinson will be here before you are ready for her, Sophy,” said -Rosalind. “I fear I am a little late. Has she been giving you the _carte -du pays_, Mr. Rivers? She is more fond of criticism than little girls -should be.” - -“I have had a few sketches of the neighborhood,” he answered quickly, -divining her fears. “She is an excellent mimic, I should suppose, but it -is rather a dangerous quality. If you take me off, Miss Sophy, as you -take off the old ladies, I shall not enjoy it.” - -Rosalind was relieved, he could see. She gave him a look that was almost -grateful as she poured out his coffee, though he had done nothing to -call forth her gratitude, any more than he had done anything last night -to occasion her sorrow. A stranger in a new household, of which he has -heard nothing before, being introduced into it, is like an explorer in -an unknown country; he does not know when he may find himself on -forbidden ground, or intruding into religious mysteries. He began to -talk of himself, which seemed the safest subject; it was one which he -was not eager to launch upon, but yet which had come in handy on many -previous occasions. His life had been full of adventures. There were a -hundred things in it to tell, and it had delivered him from many a -temporary embarrassment to introduce a chapter out of his varied -experiences. He had shot elephants in Africa and tigers in India. He had -been a war-correspondent in the height of every military movement. “I -have been one of the rolling stones that gather no moss,” he said, -“though it is a kind of moss to have so many stories to tell. If the -worst comes to the worst, I can go from house to house and amuse the -children.” He did it so skilfully that Rosalind felt her agitation -calmed. A man who could fall so easily into this narrative vein, and who -was, apparently, so full of his own affairs, would not think twice, she -reflected, of such a trifling incident as that of last night. If she had -judged more truly, she would perhaps have seen that the observer who -thus dismissed the incident totally, with such an absence of all -consciousness on the subject, was precisely the one most likely to have -perceived, even if he did not understand how, that it was an incident of -great importance. But Rosalind was not sufficiently learned in moral -philosophy to have found out that. - -Her feelings were not so carefully respected by Roland Hamerton, who -would have given everything he had in the world to please her, but yet -was not capable of perceiving what, in this matter at least, was the -right way to do so. He had, though he was not one of the group round the -writing-table, heard enough to understand what had happened on the -previous night, solely, it would seem, by that strange law which -prevails in human affairs, by which the obstacles of distance and the -rules of acoustics are set aside as soon as something is going on which -it is undesirable for the spectators to hear. In this way Hamerton had -made out what it was; that Madam had been seen by the stranger, -travelling with a man. Rosalind’s sudden departure from the room, her -face of anguish, the speed with which she disappeared, and the confused -looks of those whom she thus hastily left, roused young Hamerton to -something like the agitation into which he had been plunged by the -incidents of that evening, now so long past, when Madam Trevanion had -appeared in the drawing-room at Highcourt with that guilty witness of -her nocturnal expedition clinging to her dress. He had been then almost -beside himself with the painful nature of the discovery which he had -made. What should he do--keep the knowledge to himself, or communicate -it to those who had a right to know? Roland was so unaccustomed to deal -with difficulties of this kind that he had felt it profoundly, and at -the end had held his peace, rather because it was the easiest thing to -do than from any better reason. It returned to his mind now, with all -the original trouble and perception of a duty which he could not define. -Here was Rosalind, the most perfect, the sweetest, the girl whom he -loved, wasting her best affections upon a woman who was unworthy of -them; standing by her, defending her, insisting even upon respect and -honor for her--and suffering absolute anguish, such as he had seen last -night, when the veil was lifted for a moment from that mysterious -darkness of intrigue and shame into which she had disappeared. If she -only knew and could be convinced that Madam had been unworthy all the -time, would not that deliver her? Roland thought that he was able to -prove this; he had never wavered in his own judgment. All his admiration -and regard for Mrs. Trevanion had been killed at a blow by the shock he -had received, by what he had seen. He could not bear to think that such -a woman should retain Rosalind’s affection. And he thought he had it in -his power to convince Rosalind, to make her see everything in its true -light. This conviction was not come to without pain. The idea of opening -such a subject at all, of speaking of what was impure and vile in -Rosalind’s hearing, of looking in her eyes, which knew no evil, and -telling her such a tale, was terrible to the young man. But yet he -thought it ought to be done. Certainly it ought to be done. Had she seen -what he had seen, did she know what he knew, she would give up at once -that championship which she had held so warmly. It had always been told -him that though men might forgive a woman who had fallen, no woman ever -did so; and how must an innocent girl, ignorant, incredulous of all -evil, feel towards one who had thus sinned? What could she do but flee -from her in terror, in horror, with a condemnation which would be all -the more relentless, remorseless, from her own incapacity to understand -either the sin or the temptation? But no doubt it would be a terrible -shock to Rosalind. This was the only thing that held him back. It would -be a blow which would shake the very foundations of her being: for she -could not suspect, she could not even know of what Madam was suspected, -or she would never stand by her so. Now, however, that her peace had -been disturbed by this chance incident, there was a favorable -opportunity for Roland. It was his duty now, he thought, to strike to -the root of her fallacy. It was better for her that she should be -entirely undeceived. - -Thinking about this, turning it over and over in his mind, had cost him -almost his night’s rest: not altogether. If the world itself had gone to -pieces, Roland would still have got a few hours’ repose. He allowed to -himself that he had got a few hours, but, as a matter of fact, he had -been thinking of this the last thing when he went to sleep, and it was -the first thing that occurred to him when he awoke. The frost had given -way, but he said to himself that he would not hunt that day. He would go -on to the Elms; he would manage somehow to see Rosalind by herself, and -he would have it out. If in her pain her heart was softened, and she was -disposed to turn to him for sympathy, then he could have it all out, and -so get a little advantage out of his anxiety for her good. Indeed, she -had snubbed him yesterday and made believe that she did not know who it -was he wanted for his companion and guide; but that was nothing. Girls -did so, he had often heard--staved off a proposal when they knew it was -coming, even though they did not mean to reject it when it came. That -was nothing. But when she was in trouble, when her heart was moved, who -could say that she would not cling to him for sympathy? And there was -nobody that could sympathize with her as he could. He pictured to -himself how he would draw her close to him, and bid her cry as much as -she liked on his faithful bosom. That faithful bosom heaved with a -delicious throb. He would not mind her crying; she might cry us long as -she pleased--there. - -And, as it happened, by a chance which seemed to Roland providential, -he found Rosalind alone when he entered the drawing-room at the Elms. -Mrs. Lennox had taken Sophy with her in the carriage to the dentist at -Clifton; Roland felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that Sophy, that -little imp of mischief, was going to have a tooth drawn. The gentlemen -were out, and Miss Rosalind was alone. Roland could have hugged Saunders -for this information; he gave him a sovereign, which pleased the worthy -man much better, and flew three steps at a time up-stairs. Rosalind was -seated by her writing-table. It subdued him at once to see her attitude. -She had been crying already. She had not waited for the faithful bosom. -And he thought that when she was disturbed by the opening of the door, -she had closed the little gates of that carved shrine in which Madam’s -picture dwelt; otherwise she did not move when she saw who her visitor -was, but nodded to him, with relief, he thought. “Is it you, Roland? I -thought you were sure to be out to-day,” she said. - -“No, I didn’t go out. I hadn’t the heart.” He came and sat down by her -where she had made Rivers sit the previous night; she looked up at him -with a little surprise. - -“Hadn’t the heart! What is the matter, Roland? Have you had bad news--is -there anything wrong at home?” - -“No--nothing about my people. Rosalind, I haven’t slept a wink all -night”--which was exaggeration, the reader knows--“thinking about you.” - -“About me!” She smiled, then blushed a little, and then made an attempt -to recover the composure with which yesterday she had so calmly ignored -his attempts at love-making. “I don’t see why you should lose your sleep -about me; was it a little toothache--perhaps neuralgia? I know you are -sometimes subject to that.” - -“Rosalind,” he said, solemnly, “you must not laugh at me to-day. It is -nothing to laugh at. I could not help hearing what that fellow said last -night.” - -The color ebbed away out of Rosalind’s face, but not the courage. -“Yes!” she said, half affirmation, half interrogation; “that he had met -mamma abroad.” - -“I can’t bear to hear you call her mamma. And it almost killed you to -hear what he said.” - -She did not make any attempt to defend herself, but grew whiter, as if -she would faint, and her mouth quivered again. “Well,” she said, “I do -not deny that--that I was startled. Her dear name, that alone is enough -to agitate me, and to hear of her like that without warning, in a -moment.” - -The tears rose to her eyes, but she still looked him in the face, though -she scarcely saw him through that mist. - -“Well,” she said again--she took some time to master herself before she -was able to speak--“if I did feel it very much, that was not wonderful. -I was taken by surprise. For the first moment, just in the confusion, -knowing what wickedness people think, I--I--lost heart altogether. It -was too dreadful and miserable, but I was not very well, I suppose. I am -not going to shirk it at all, Roland. She was travelling with a -gentleman--well! and what then?” - -“Oh, Rosalind!” he cried, with a sort of horror, “after that, can you -stand up for her still?” - -“I don’t know what there is to stand up for. My mother is not a girl -like me. She is the best judge of what is right. When I had time to -think, that became a matter of course, as plain as daylight.” - -“And you don’t mind?” he said. - -She turned upon him something of the same look which she had cast on -Rivers, a look of anguish and pathos, reproachful, yet with a sort of -tremulous smile. - -“Oh, Rosalind,” he cried, “I can’t bear to look at you like that. I -can’t bear to see you so deceived. I’ll tell you what I saw myself. -Nobody was more fond of Madam than I. I’d have gone to the stake for -her. But that night--that night, if you remember, when the thorn was -hanging to her dress, I had gone away into the conservatory because I -couldn’t bear to hear your father going on. Rosalind, just hear out -what I have got to say. And there I saw--oh, saw! with my own eyes-- I -saw her standing--with a man-- I saw them part, he going away into the -shadow of the shrubbery, she--Rosalind!” - -She had risen up, and stood towering (as he felt) over him, as if she -had grown to double her height in a moment. “Do you tell me this,” she -said, steadying herself with an effort, moistening her lips between her -words to be able to speak--“do you tell me this to make me love you, or -hate you?” - -“Rosalind, to undeceive you, that you may know the truth.” - -“Go away!” she said. She pointed with her arm to the door. “Go away! It -is not the truth. If it were the truth, I should never forgive you, I -should never speak to you again. But it is not the truth. Go away!” - -“Rosalind!” - -“Must I put you out,” she cried, in the passion which now and then -overcame her, stamping her foot upon the floor, “with my own hands?” - -Alas! he carried the faithful bosom which was of no use to her to cry -upon, but which throbbed with pain and trouble all the same, out of -doors. He was utterly cowed and subdued, not understanding her, nor -himself, nor what had happened. It was the truth, she might deny it as -she pleased; he had meant it for the best. But now he had done for -himself, that was evident. And perhaps, after all, he was a cad to tell. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -Arthur Rivers had come to Clifton not to visit a new friend, but to see -his own family, who lived there. They were not, perhaps, quite on the -same level as the Trevanions and Mrs. Lennox, who did not know them. And -so it came to pass that, after the few days which he passed at the Elms, -and in which he did everything he could to obliterate the recollection -of that first unfortunate reference on the night of his arrival, he was -for some time in the neighborhood without seeing much of them. To the -mistress of the house at least this was agreeable, and a relief. She -had, indeed, taken so strong a step as to remonstrate with her brother -on the subject. - -“I am not quite sure that it was judicious to bring a man like that, so -amusing and nice to talk to, into the company of a girl like Rosalind, -without knowing who his people were,” Mrs. Lennox said. “I don’t like -making a fuss, but it was not judicious--not quite judicious,” she -added, faltering a little as she felt the influence of John’s eyes. - -“What does it matter to us who his people are?” said John Trevanion -(which was so like a man, Mrs. Lennox said to herself). “He is himself a -capital fellow, and I am under obligations to him; and as for -Rosalind--Rosalind is not likely to be fascinated by a man of that age; -and, besides, if there had ever been any chance of that, he completely -put his foot into it the first night.” - -“Do you think so?” said Aunt Sophy, doubtfully. “Now you know you all -laugh at Mrs. Malaprop and her sayings. But I have always thought there -was a great deal of good sense in one of them, and that is when she -speaks of people beginning with a little aversion. Oh, you may smile, -but it’s true. It is far better than being indifferent. Rosalind will -think a great deal more of the man because he made her very angry. And, -as he showed after that, he could make himself exceedingly pleasant.” - -“He did not make her angry.” - -“Oh, I thought you said he did. Something about poor Grace--that he met -her and thought badly of her--or something. I shall take an opportunity -when he calls to question him myself. I dare say he will tell me more.” - -“Don’t, unless you wish to distress me very much, Sophy; I would rather -not hear anything about her, nor take him into our family secrets.” - -“Do you think not, John? Oh, of course I will do nothing to displease -you. Perhaps, on the whole, indeed, it will be better not to have him -come here any more on account of Rosalind, for of course his people--” - -“Who are his people?--he is a man of education himself. I don’t see why -we should take it to heart whatever his people may be.” - -“Oh, well, there is a brother a doctor, I believe, and somebody who is a -schoolmaster, and the mother and sister, who live in--quite a little -out-of-the-way place.” - -“I thought you must mean a green-grocer,” said John. “Let him alone, -Sophy, that is the best way; everything of the kind is best left to -nature. I shall be very happy to see him if he comes, and I will not -break my heart if he doesn’t come. It is always most easy, and generally -best, to let things alone.” - -“Well, if you think so, John.” There was a little hesitation in Mrs. -Lennox’s tone, but it was not in her to enforce a contrary view. And as -it was a point he insisted upon that nothing should be said to Rosalind -on the subject, that, too, was complied with. It was not, indeed, a -subject on which Mrs. Lennox desired to tackle Rosalind. She had herself -the greatest difficulty in refraining from all discussion of poor Grace, -but she never cared to discuss her with Rosalind, who maintained Mrs. -Trevanion’s cause with an impetuosity which confused all her aunt’s -ideas. She could not hold her own opinion against professions of faith -so strenuously made; and yet she did hold it in a wavering way, yielding -to Rosalind’s vehemence for the moment, only to resume her own -convictions with much shaking of her head when she was by herself. It -was difficult for her to maintain her first opinion on the subject of -Mr. Rivers and his people. When he called he made himself so agreeable -that Mrs. Lennox could not restrain the invitation that rushed to her -lips. “John will be so sorry that he has missed you; won’t you come and -dine with us on Saturday?” she said, before she could remember that it -was not desirable he should be encouraged to come to the house. And -Rosalind had been so grateful to him for never returning to the subject -of the photograph, or seeming to remember anything about it, that his -natural attraction was rather increased than diminished to her by that -incident. There were few men in the neighborhood who talked like Mr. -Rivers. He knew everybody, he had been everywhere. Sometimes, when he -talked of the beautiful places he had seen, Rosalind was moved by a -thrill of expectation; she waited almost breathless for a mention of -Spain, for something that would recall to him the interrupted -conversation of the first evening. But he kept religiously apart from -every mention of Spain. He passed by the writing-table upon which the -shrine in which the portrait was enclosed stood, now always shut, -without so much as a glance which betrayed any association with it, any -recollection. Thank Heaven, he had forgotten all that, it had passed -from his mind as a mere trivial accident without importance. She was -satisfied, yet disappointed, too. But it never occurred to Rosalind that -this scrupulous silence meant that Rivers had by no means forgotten; and -he was instantly conscious that the portrait was covered; he lost -nothing of these details. Though the story had faded out of the -recollection of the Clifton people, to whom it had never been well -known, he did not fail to discover something of the facts of the case; -and, perhaps, it was the existence of a mystery which led him back to -the Elms, and induced him to accept Mrs. Lennox’s invitation to come on -Saturday. This fact lessened the distance between the beautiful young -Miss Trevanion, and the man whose “people” were not at all on the -Highcourt level. He had thought at first that it would be his best -policy to take himself away and see as little as might be of Rosalind. -But when he heard that there was “some story about the mother,” he -ceased to feel the necessity for so much self-denial. When there is a -story about a mother it does the daughter harm socially; and Rivers was -not specially diffident about his own personal claims. The disadvantage -on his side of having “people” who were not in society was neutralized -on hers by having a mother who had been talked of. Neither of these -facts harmed the individual. He, Arthur Rivers, was not less of a -personage in his own right because his mother lived in a small street in -Clifton and was nobody; and she, Rosalind Trevanion, was not less -delightful because her mother had been breathed upon by scandal; but the -drawback on her side brought them upon something like an equality, and -did away with the drawback on his, which was not so great a drawback. -This, at least, was how he reasoned. He did not even know that the lady -about whom there was a story was not Rosalind’s mother, and he could not -make up his mind whether it was possible that the lady whom he had -recognized could be that mother. But after he had turned the whole -matter over in his mind, after a week had elapsed, and he had considered -it from every point of view, he went over to the Elms and called. This -was the result of his thoughts. - -It must not be concluded from these reflections that he had fallen in -love at first sight, according to a mode which has gone out of fashion. -He had not, perhaps, gone so far as that. He was a man of his time, and -took no such plunges into the unseen. But Rosalind Trevanion had -somewhat suddenly detached herself from all other images when he came, -after years of wandering, into the kind of easy acquaintance with her -which is produced by living, even if it is only from Saturday to Monday, -in the same house. He had met all kinds of women of the world, old and -young--some of them quite young, younger than Rosalind--in the spheres -which he had frequented most; but not any that were so fresh, so -maidenly, so full of charm, and yet so little artificial; no child, but -a woman, and yet without a touch of that knowledge which stains the -thoughts. This was what had caught his attention amid the simple but -conventional circumstances that surrounded her. Innocence is sometimes a -little silly; or so, at least, this man of the world thought. But -Rosalind understood as quickly, and had as much intelligence in her -eyes, as any of his former acquaintances, and yet was as entirely -without any evil knowledge as a child. It had startled him strangely to -meet that look of hers, so pathetic, so reproachful, though he did not -know why. Something deeper still was in that look; it was the look an -angel might have given to one who drew his attention to a guilt or a -misery from which he could give no deliverance. The shame of the -discovery, the anguish of it, the regret and heart-breaking pity, all -these shone in Rosalind’s eyes. He had never been able to forget that -look. And he could not get her out of his mind, do what he would. No, it -was not falling in love; for he was quite cool and able to think over -the question whether, as she was much younger, better off, and of more -important connections than himself, he had not better go away and see -her no more. He took this fully into consideration from every point of -view, reflecting that the impression made upon him was slight as yet and -might be wiped out, whereas if he remained at Clifton and visited the -Elms it might become more serious, and lead him further than it would be -prudent to go. But if there was a story about the mother--if it was -possible that the mother might be wandering over Europe in the equivocal -company of some adventurer--this was an argument which might prevent any -young dukes from “coming forward,” and might make a man who was not a -duke, nor of any lofty lineage, more likely to be received on his own -standing. - -This course of thought took him some time, as we have said, during which -his mother, a simple woman who was very proud of him, could not think -why Arthur should be so slow to keep up with “his friends the -Trevanions,” who ranked among the county people, and were quite out of -her humble range. She said to her daughter that it was silly of Arthur. -“He thinks nothing of them because he is used to the very first society -both in London and abroad,” she said. “But he ought to remember that -Clifton is different, and they are quite the best people here.” “Why -don’t you go and see your fine friends?” she said to her son. “Oh, no, -Arthur, I am not foolish; I don’t expect Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion -to visit me and the girls; I think myself just as good in my way, but of -course there is a difference; not for you though, Arthur, who have met -the Prince of Wales and know everybody-- I think it is your duty to keep -them up.” At this he laughed, saying nothing, but thought all the more; -and at last, at the end of a week, he came round to his mother’s -opinion, and made up his mind that, if not his duty, it was at least a -reasonable and not imprudent indulgence. And upon this argument he -called, and was invited on the spot by Mrs. Lennox, who had just been -saying how imprudent it was of John to have brought him to the house, to -come and dine on Saturday. Thus things which have never appeared -possible come about. - -He went on Saturday and dined, and as a bitter frost had come on, and -all the higher world of the neighborhood was coming on Monday to the -pond near the Elms to skate, if the frost held, was invited for that -too; and went, and was introduced to a great many people, and made -himself quite a reputation before the day was over. There never had been -a more successful _début_ in society. And a _Times’_ Correspondent! -Nobody cared who was his father or what his family; he had enough in -himself to gain admittance everywhere. And he had a distinguished look, -with his gray hair and bright eyes, far more than the ordinary man of -his age who is beginning to get rusty, or perhaps bald, which is not -becoming. Mr. Rivers’s hair was abundant and full of curl; there was no -sign of age in his handsome face and vigorous figure, which made the -whiteness of his locks _piquant_. Indeed, there was no one about, none -of the great county gentlemen, who looked so imposing. Rosalind, half -afraid of him, half drawn towards him, because, notwithstanding the -dreadful disclosure he had made, he had admired and remembered the woman -whom she loved, and more than half grateful to him for never having -touched on the subject again, was half proud now of the notice he -attracted, and because he more or less belonged to her party. She was -pleased that he should keep by her side and manifestly devote himself to -her. Thus it happened that she ceased to ask herself the question which -has been referred to in previous pages, and began to think that the -novels were right, after all, and that the commodity in which they dealt -so largely did fall to every woman’s lot. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Roland Hamerton was not one of those on whom Mr. Rivers made this -favorable impression. He would fain indeed have found something against -him, something which would have justified him in stigmatizing as a -“cad,” or setting down as full of conceit, the new-comer about whom -everybody was infatuated. Roland was not shabby enough to make capital -out of the lowliness of Arthur’s connections, though the temptation to -do so crossed his mind more than once; but the young man was a -gentleman, and could not, even in all the heat of rivalship, make use of -such an argument. There was, indeed, nothing to be said against the man -whom Roland felt, with a pang, to be so much more interesting than -himself; a man who knew when to hold his tongue as well as when to -speak; who would never have gone and done so ridiculous a thing as he -(Hamerton) had done, trying to convince a girl against her will and to -shake her partisan devotion. The young fellow perceived now what a mad -idea this had been, but unfortunately it is not till after the event -that a simple mind learns such a lesson. Rivers, who was older, had no -doubt found it out by experience, or else he had a superior instinct and -was a better diplomatist, or perhaps thought less of the consequences -involved. It wounded Roland to think of the girl he loved as associated -in any way with a woman who was under a stain. He could not bear to -think that her robe of whiteness should ever touch the garments of one -who was sullied. But afterwards, when he came to think, he saw how -foolish he had been. Perhaps Rosalind felt, though she could not allow -it, everything he had ventured to suggest; but, naturally, when it was -said to her brutally by an outsider, she would flare up. Roland could -remember, even in his own limited experience, corresponding instances. -He saw the defects of the members of his own family clearly enough, but -if any one else ventured to point them out! Yes, yes, he had been a -fool, and he had met with the fate he deserved. Rosalind had said -conditionally that if it were true she would never speak to him again, -but that it was not true. She had thus left for herself a way of escape. -He knew very well that it was all truth he had said, but he was glad -enough to take advantage of her wilful scepticism when he perceived that -it afforded a way of escape from the sentence of excommunication -otherwise to be pronounced against him. He stayed away from the Elms for -a time, which was also the time of the frost, when there was nothing to -be done; but ventured on the third or fourth day to the pond to skate, -and was invited by Mrs. Lennox, as was natural, to stay and dine, which -he accepted eagerly when he perceived that Rosalind, though cold, was -not inexorable. She said very little to him for that evening or many -evenings after, but still she did not carry out her threat of never -speaking to him again. But when he met the other, as he now did -perpetually, it was not in human nature to preserve an unbroken -amiability. He let Rivers see by many a silent indication that he hated -him, and found him in his way. He became disagreeable, poor boy, by dint -of rivalry and the galling sense he had of the advantages possessed by -the new-comer. He would go so far as to sneer at travellers’ tales, and -hint a doubt that there might be another version of such and such an -incident. When he had been guilty of suggestions of this kind he was -overpowered with shame. But it is very hard to be generous to a man who -has the better of you in every way; who is handsomer, cleverer, even -taller; can talk far better, can amuse people whom you only bore; and -when you attempt to argue can turn you, alas! inside out with a touch of -his finger. The prudent thing for Roland to have done would have been to -abstain from any comparison of himself with his accomplished adversary; -but he was not wise enough to do this: few, very few, young men are so -wise. He was always presenting his injured, offended, clouded face, by -the side of the fine features and serene, secure look of the elder man, -who was thus able to contemplate him, and, worse, to present him to -others, in the aspect of a mad youngster, irritable and unreasoning. -Roland was acutely, painfully aware that this was not his character at -all, and yet that he had the appearance of it, and that Rosalind no -doubt must consider him so. The union of pain, resentment, indignation -at the thought of such injustice, with a sense that it scarcely was -injustice, and that he was doing everything to justify it, made the poor -young fellow as miserable as can be imagined. He did not deserve to be -so looked upon, and yet he did deserve it; and Rivers was an intolerable -prig and tyrant, using a giant’s strength villainously as a giant, yet -in a way which was too cunning to afford any opening for reproach. He -could have wept in his sense of the intolerable, and yet he had not a -word to say. Was there ever a position more difficult to bear? And poor -Roland felt that he had lost ground in every way. Ever since that -unlucky interference of his and disclosure of his private information -(which he saw now was the silliest thing that could have been done) -there was no lingering in the fire-light, no _tête-à-tête_ ever accorded -to him. When Mrs. Lennox went to dress for dinner, Rosalind went too. -After a while she ceased to show her displeasure, and talked to him as -usual when they met in the presence of the family, but he saw her by -herself no more. He could not make out indeed whether _that_ fellow was -ever admitted to any such privilege, but it certainly was extended to -himself no more. - -The neighborhood began to take a great interest in the Elms when this -rivalship first became apparent, which it need not have done had -Hamerton shown any command of himself; for Mr. Rivers was perfectly -well-bred, and there is nothing in which distinguished manners show more -plainly than in the way by which, in the first stage of a love-making, a -man can secure the object of his devotion from all remark. There can be -no better test of a high-bred gentleman; and though he was only the son -of an humble family with no pretension to be considered county people, -he answered admirably to it. Rosalind was herself conscious of the -special homage he paid her, but no one else would have been at all the -wiser had it not been for the ridiculous jealousy of Roland, who could -not contain himself in Rivers’s presence. - -The position of Rosalind between these two men was a little different -from the ordinary ideal. The right thing to have done in her -circumstances would have been, had she “felt a preference,” as it was -expressed in the eighteenth century, to have, with all the delicacy and -firmness proper to maidenhood, so discouraged and put down the one who -was not preferred as to have left him no excuse for persisting in his -vain pretensions. If she had no preference she ought to have gently but -decidedly made both aware that their homage was vain. As for taking any -pleasure in it, if she did not intend in either case to recompense -it--that would not be thought of for a moment. But Rosalind, though she -had come in contact with so much that was serious in life, and had so -many of its gravest duties to perform, was yet so young and so natural -as not to be at all superior to the pleasure of being sought. She liked -it, though her historian does not know how to make the admission. No -doubt, had she been accused of such a sentiment, she would have denied -it hotly and even with some indignation, not being at all in the habit -of investigating the phenomena of her own mind; but yet she did not in -her heart dislike to feel that she was of the first importance to more -than one beholder, and that her presence or absence made a difference -in the aspect of the world to two men. A sense of being approved, -admired, thought much of, is always agreeable. Even when the sentiment -does not go the length of love, there is a certain moral support in the -consciousness in a girl’s mind that she embodies to some one the best -things in humankind. When the highest instincts of love touch the heart -it becomes a sort of profanity, indeed, to think of any but the one who -has awakened that divine inspiration; but, in the earlier stages, before -any sentiment has become definite, or her thoughts begun to contemplate -any final decision, there is a secret gratification in the mere -consciousness. It may not be an elevated feeling, but it is a true one. -She is pleased; there is a certain elation in her veins in spite of -herself. Mr. Ruskin says that a good girl should have seven suitors at -least, all ready to do impossibilities in her service, among whom she -should choose, but not too soon, letting each have a chance. Perhaps in -the present state of statistics this is somewhat impracticable, and it -may perhaps be doubted whether the adoration of these seven gentlemen -would be a very safe moral atmosphere for the young lady. It also goes -rather against the other rule which insists on a girl falling in love as -well as her lover; that is to say, making her selection by chance, by -impulse, and not by proof of the worthiest. But at least it is a high -authority in favor of a plurality of suitors, and might be adduced by -the offenders in such cases as a proof that their otherwise not quite -excusable satisfaction in the devotion of more than one was almost -justifiable. The dogma had not been given forth in Rosalind’s day, and -she was not aware that she had any excuse at all, but blushed for -herself if ever she was momentarily conscious of so improper a -sentiment. She blushed, and then she withdrew from the outside world in -which these two looked at her with looks so different from those they -directed towards any other, and thought of neither of them. On such -occasions she would return to her room with a vague cloud of incense -breathing about her, a sort of faint atmosphere of flattered and happy -sentiment in her mind, or sit down in the firelight in the drawing-room, -which Aunt Sophy had left, and think. About whom? Oh, about no one! she -would have said--about a pair of beautiful eyes which were like -Johnny’s, and which seemed to follow and gaze at her with a rapture of -love and devotion still more wonderful to behold. This image was so -abstract that it escaped all the drawbacks of fact. There was nothing to -detract from it, no test of reality to judge it by. Sometimes she found -it impossible not to laugh at Roland; sometimes she disagreed violently -with something Mr. Rivers said; but she never quarrelled with the -visionary lover, who had appeared out of the unknown merely to make an -appeal to her, as it seemed, to frustrate her affections, to bid her -wait until he should reveal himself. Would he come again? Should she -ever see him again? All this was unreal in the last degree. But so is -everything in a young mind at such a moment, when nature plays with the -first approaches of fate. - -“Mr. Rivers seems to be staying a long time in Clifton,” Mrs. Lennox -said one evening, disturbing Rosalind out of these dreams. Roland was in -the room, though she could scarcely see him, and Rosalind had been -guilty of what she herself felt to be the audacity of thinking of her -unknown lover in the very presence of this visible and real one. She had -been sitting very quiet, drawing back out of the light, while a gentle -hum of talk went on on the other side of the fire. The windows, with the -twilight stars looking in, and the bare boughs of the trees waving -across, formed the background, and Mrs. Lennox, relieved against one of -those windows, was the centre of the warm but uncertainly lighted room. -Hamerton sat behind, responding vaguely, and intent upon the shadowed -corner in which Rosalind was. “How can he be spared, I wonder, out of -his newspaper work!” said the placid voice. “I have always heard it was -a dreadful drudgery, and that you had to be up all night, and never got -any rest.” - -“He is not one of the principal ones, perhaps,” Roland replied. - -“Oh, he must be a principal! John would not have brought a man here who -is nothing particular to begin with, if he had not been a sort of a -personage in his way.” - -“Well, then, perhaps he is too much of a principal,” said Hamerton; -“perhaps it is only the secondary people that are always on duty; and -this, you know, is what they call the silly time of the year.” - -“I never knew much about newspaper people,” said Aunt Sophy, in her -comfortable voice, something like a cat purring by the warm glow of the -fire. “We did not think much of them in my time. Indeed, there are a -great many people who are quite important in society nowadays that were -never thought of in my time. I never knew how important a newspaper -editor was till I read that novel of Mr. Trollope’s--do you remember -which one it is, Rosalind?--where there is Tom something or other who is -the editor of the _Jupiter_. That was said to mean the _Times_. But if -Mr. Rivers is so important as that, how does he manage to stay so long -at Clifton, where I am sure there is nothing going on?” - -“Sometimes,” said Hamerton, after a pause, “there are things going on -which are more important than a man’s business, though perhaps they -don’t show.” - -There was something in the tone with which he said this which called -Rosalind out of her dreams. She had heard them talking before, but not -with any interest; now she was roused, though she could scarcely tell -why. - -“That is all very well for you, Roland, who have no business. Oh! I know -you’re a barrister, but as you never did anything at the bar-- A man, -when he has money of his own and does not live by his profession, can -please himself, I suppose; but when his profession is all he has, -nothing, you know, ought to be more important than that. And if his -family keep him from his work, it is not right. A mother ought to know -better, and even a sister; they ought not to keep him, if it is they who -are keeping him. Now, do you think, putting yourself in their place, -that it is right?” - -“I can’t fancy myself in the place of Rivers’s mother or sister,” said -Roland, with a laugh. - -“Oh, but I can, quite! and I could not do such a thing; for my own -pleasure injure him in his career! Oh, no, no! And if it was any one -else,” said Aunt Sophy, “I do think it would be nearly criminal. If it -was a girl, for instance. Girls are the most thoughtless creatures on -the face of the earth; they don’t understand such things; they don’t -really know. I suppose, never having had anything to do themselves, they -don’t understand. But if a girl should have so little feeling, and play -with a man, and keep him from his work, when perhaps it may be ruinous -to him,” said Mrs. Lennox--when she was not contradicted, she could -express herself with some force, though if once diverted from her course -she had little strength to stand against opposition--“I cannot say less -than that it would be criminal,” she said. - -“Is any one keeping Mr. Rivers from his work?” said Rosalind, suddenly, -out of her corner, which made Mrs. Lennox start. - -“Dear me, are you there, Rosalind? I thought you had gone away” (which -we fear was not quite true). “Keeping Mr. Rivers, did you say? I am -sure, my dear, I don’t know. I think something must be detaining him. I -am sure he did not mean to stay so long when he first came here.” - -“But perhaps he knows best himself, Aunt Sophy, don’t you think?” -Rosalind said, rising up with youthful severity and coming forward into -the ruddy light. - -“Oh, yes, my dear, I have no doubt he does,” Mrs. Lennox said, -faltering; “I was only saying--” - -“You were blaming some one; you were saying it was his mother’s fault, -or perhaps some girl’s fault. I think he is likely to know much better -than any girl; it must be his own fault if he is wasting his time. I -shouldn’t think he was wasting his time. He looks as if he knew very -well what he was about--better than a girl, who, as you were saying, -seldom has anything to do.” - -“Dear me, Rosalind, I did not know you were listening so closely. Yes, -to be sure he must know best. You know, Roland, gossip is a thing that -she cannot abide. And she knows you and I have been gossiping about our -neighbors. It is not so; it is really because I take a great interest; -and you too, Roland.” - -“Oh, no, I don’t take any interest,” cried Hamerton, hastily; “it was -simple gossip on my part. If he were to lose ever so much time or money, -or anything else, I shouldn’t care!” - -“It is of no consequence to any of us,” Rosalind said. “I should think -Mr. Rivers did what he pleased, without minding much what people say. -And as for throwing the blame upon a girl! What could a girl have to do -with it?” She stood still for a moment, holding out her hands in a sort -of indignant appeal, and then turned to leave the room, taking no notice -of the apologetic outburst from her aunt. - -“I am sure I was not blaming any girl, Rosalind. I was only saying, if -it was a girl; but to be sure, when one thinks of it, a girl couldn’t -have anything to do with it,” came somewhat tremulously from Aunt -Sophy’s lips. Miss Trevanion took no notice of this, but went away -through the partial darkness, holding her head high. She had been -awakened for the moment out of her dreams. The two who were left behind -felt guilty, and drew together for mutual support. - -“She thinks I mean her,” said Mrs. Lennox; “she thinks I was talking at -her. Now I never talk at people, Roland, and really, when I began, I did -think she had gone away. You don’t suppose I ever meant it was -Rosalind?” she cried. - -“But it _is_ Rosalind,” said young Hamerton. “I can’t be deceived about -it. We are both in the same box. She might make up her mind and put us -out of our misery. No, I don’t want to be put out of my misery. I’d -rather wait on and try, and think there was a little hope.” - -“There must be hope,” cried Mrs. Lennox; “of course there is hope. Is it -rational that she should care for a stranger with gray hair, and old -enough to be her father, instead of you, whom she has known all her -life? Oh, no, Roland, it is not possible. And even if it were, I should -object, you may be sure. It may be fine to be a _Times_ Correspondent, -but what could he settle upon her? You may be sure he could settle -nothing upon her. He has his mother and sister to think of. And then he -is not like a man with money; he has only what he works for; there is -not much in that that could be satisfactory to a girl’s friends. No, no, -I will never give my consent to it; I promise you that.” - -Roland shook his head notwithstanding. But he still took a little -comfort from what Aunt Sophy said. Such words always afford a grain of -consolation; though he knew that she was not capable of holding by them -in face of any opposition, still there was a certain support even in -hearing them said. But he shook his head. “If she liked him best I would -not stand in their way,” he said; “that is the only thing to be guided -by. Thank you very much, Mrs. Lennox; you are my only comfort. But -still, you know, if she likes him best-- I don’t think much of the gray -hair and all that,” he added somewhat tremulously. “I’m not the man he -is, in spite of his gray hair. And girls are just as likely as not to -like that best,” said the honest young fellow. “I don’t entertain any -delusion on the subject. I would not stand in her way, not a moment, if -she likes him best.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -Rosalind herself was much aroused by this discussion. She thought it -unjust and cruel. She had done nothing to call for such a reproach. She -had not attempted to make Mr. Rivers love her, nor to keep him from his -work, nor to interfere in any way with his movements. She had even -avoided him at the first--almost disliked him, she said to herself--and -that she should be exposed to remark on his account was not to be borne. -She retired to her room, full of lively indignation against her aunt and -Roland, and even against Rivers, who was entirely innocent, surely, if -ever man was. This was another phase, one she had not thought of, in the -chapter of life which had begun by that wonder in her mind why she had -no lover. She had been surprised by the absence of that figure in her -life, and then had seen him appear, and had felt the elation, the secret -joy, of being worshipped. But now the matter had entered into another -phase, and she herself was to be judged as an independent actor in it; -she, who had been only passive, doing nothing, looking on with curiosity -and interest, and perhaps pleasure, but no more. What had she to do with -it? She had no part in the matter: it was their doing, theirs only, all -through. She had done nothing to influence his fate. She had conducted -herself towards him no otherwise than she did to old Sir John, or Mr. -Penworthy, the clergyman, both of whom were Rosalind’s good friends. If -Mr. Rivers had taken up a different idea of her, that was his doing, not -hers. She detain him, keep him from his business, interfere with his -career! She thought Aunt Sophy must be mad, or dreaming. Rosalind was -indignant to be made a party at all in the matter. It had thus entered a -stage of which she had no anticipation. It had been pleasant inasmuch as -it was entirely apart from herself, the attentions unsolicited, the -admiration unsought. It was a new idea altogether that she should be -considered accountable, or brought within the possibility of blame. What -was she to do? Mr. Rivers was expected at the Elms that very evening, at -one of Mrs. Lennox’s everlasting dinner-parties. Rosalind had not -hitherto looked upon them as everlasting dinner-parties. She had enjoyed -the lively flow of society, which Aunt Sophy (who enjoyed it very much) -considered herself obliged to keep up for Rosalind’s sake, that she -should have pleasant company and amusement. Now, however, Miss Trevanion -was suddenly of opinion that she had hated them all along; that, above -all, she had disliked the constant invitations to these men. It would be -indispensable that she should put up with this evening’s party, which it -was now much too late to elude. But after to-night she resolved that she -would make a protest. She would say to Aunt Sophy that henceforward she -must be excused. Whatever happened, she must disentangle herself from -this odious position as a girl who was responsible for the feeling, -whatever it was, entertained for her by a gentleman. It was -preposterous, it was insupportable. Whatever he chose to think, it was -his doing, and not hers at all. - -These sentiments gave great stateliness to Rosalind’s aspect when she -went down to dinner. They even influenced her dress, causing her to put -aside the pretty toilet she had intended to make, and attire herself in -an old and very serious garment which had been appropriated to evenings -when the family was alone. Mrs. Lennox stared at her niece in -consternation when she saw this visible sign of contrariety and -displeasure. It disturbed her beyond measure to see how far Rosalind had -gone in her annoyance: whereas the gentlemen, with their usual density, -saw nothing at all the matter, but thought her more dazzling than usual -in the little black dress, which somehow threw up all her advantages of -complexion and the whiteness of her pretty arms and throat. She had put -on manners, however, which were more repellent than her dress, and which -froze Hamerton altogether, who had a guilty knowledge of what was the -matter which Rivers did not share. Roland was frozen externally, but it -cannot be denied that in his heart there was a certain guilty pleasure. -He thought that the suggestion that she had encouraged Rivers was quite -enough to make Rosalind henceforward so much the reverse of encouraging -that his rival would see the folly of going on with his suit, and the -field would be left free to himself, as before. Rosalind might not be -the better inclined, in consequence, to himself: but it was worth -something to get that fellow, whom nobody could help looking at, away. -There were two or three indifferent people in the company this evening, -to whose amusement Rosalind devoted herself, ignoring both the -candidates for her favor; and, as is natural in such circumstances, she -was more lively, more gay, than usual, and eager to please these -indifferent persons. As for Rivers, he thought she was out of sorts, -perhaps out of temper (for he was aware that in this point she was not -perfect), her usual friendliness and sweetness clouded over. But a man -of his age does not jump into despair as youth does, and he waited -patiently, believing that the cloud would pass away. Rivers had been -very wise in his way of approaching Rosalind. He had not tried openly to -appropriate her society, to keep by her side, to make his adoration -patent, as foolish Roland did. To-night, however, he, too, adopted a -different course. Perhaps her changed aspect stirred him up, and he felt -that the moment had come for a bolder stroke. However this might be, -whether it was done by accident or on principle, the fact was that his -tactics were changed. When Rosalind rose, by Mrs. Lennox’s desire, and -went to the writing-table to write an address, Rivers rose too, and -followed her, drawing a chair near hers with the air of having something -special to say. “I want to ask your advice, if you will permit me, Miss -Trevanion,” he said. - -“My advice! oh, no!” said Rosalind; “I am not wise enough to be able to -advise any one.” - -“You are young and generous. I do not want wisdom.” - -“Not so very young,” said Rosalind. “And how do you know that I am -generous at all? I do not think I am.” - -He smiled and went on, without noticing this protest. “My mother,” he -said, “wishes to come to London to be near me. I am sometimes sent off -to the end of the world, and often in danger. She thinks she would hear -of me more easily, be nearer, so to speak, though I might happen to be -in India or Zululand.” - -Rosalind was taken much by surprise. Her thoughts of him, as of a man -occupied above everything else by herself, seemed to come back upon her -as if they had been flung in her face. His mother! was she the subject -of his anxiety? She felt as though she had been indulging a preposterous -vanity and the most unfounded expectations. The color flew to her face; -for what had she to do with his mother, if his mother was what he was -thinking of? She was irritated by the suggestion, she could scarcely -tell why. - -“I think it is very natural she should wish it, and you would be at -home, I suppose, sometimes,” she replied, with a certain stiffness. - -“Do you think so? You know, Miss Trevanion, my family and I are in two -different worlds; I should be a fool if I tried to hide it. Would the -difference be less, do you think, between St. James’s and Islington, or -between London and Clifton? I think the first would tell most. They -would not be happy with me, nor I, alas! with them. It is the penalty a -man has to pay for getting on, as they call it. I have got on in my -small way, and they--are just where they were. How am I to settle it? If -you could imagine yourself, if that were possible, in my position, what -would you do?” - -There was a soft insinuation in his voice which would have gone to any -girl’s heart; and his eyes expressed a boundless faith in her opinion -which could not be mistaken. The irritation which was entirely without -cause died away, and, with the usual rebound of a generous nature, -Rosalind, penitent, felt her heart moved to a return of the confidence -he showed in her. She answered softly, “I would do what my mother -wished.” She was seated still in front of the writing-table where stood -the portrait, the little carved door of the frame half closed on it. A -sudden impulse seized her. She pointed to it quickly, without waiting to -think: “That is the children’s mother,” she said. - -He gave her a look of mingled sympathy and pain. “I had heard -something.” - -“What did you hear, Mr. Rivers? Something that was not true? If you -heard that she was not good, the best woman in the world, it was not -true. I have always wanted to tell you. She went away not with her will; -because she could not help it. The children have almost forgotten her, -but I can never forget. She was all the mother I have ever known.” - -Rosalind did not know at all why at such a moment she should suddenly -have opened her heart to him on this subject, through which he had given -her such a wound. She took it up hastily, instinctively, in the -quickening impulse of her disturbed thoughts. She added in a low voice, -“What you said hurt me--oh, it hurt me, that night; but afterwards, when -I came to think of it, the feeling went away.” - -“There was nothing to hurt you,” said Rivers, hastily. “I saw it was so, -but I could not explain. Besides, I was a stranger, and understood -nothing. Don’t you think I might be of use to you perhaps, if you were -to trust me?” He looked at her with eyes so full of sympathy that -Rosalind’s heart was altogether melted. “I saw,” he added quietly, “that -there was a whole history in her face.” - -“Tell me all you saw--if you spoke to her--what she said. Oh! if she had -only known you were coming here! But life seems like that--we meet -people as it were in the dark, and we never know how much we may have to -do with them. I could not let you go away without asking you. Tell me, -before you go away.” - -“I will tell you. But I am not going away, Miss Trevanion.” - -“Oh!” cried Rosalind. She felt confused, as if she had gone through a -world of conflicting experience since she first spoke. “I thought you -must be going, and that this was why you asked me.” - -“About my mother? It was with a very different view I spoke. I wished -you to know something more about me. I wished you to understand in what -position I am, and to make you aware of her existence, and to find out -what you thought about it; what would appear to you the better way.” He -was more excited and tremulous than became his years; and she was -softened by the emotion more than by the highest eloquence. - -“It must be always best to make her happy,” Rosalind said. - -“Shall I tell you what would make her happy? To see me sitting here by -your side, to hear you counselling me so sweetly; to know that was your -opinion, to hope perhaps--” - -“Mr. Rivers, do not say any more about this. You make so much more than -is necessary of a few simple words. What I want you to tell me is about -_her_.” - -“I will tell you as much as I know,” he said, with a pause and visible -effort of self-restraint. “She was travelling by unusual routes, but -without any mystery. She had a maid with her, a tall, thin, anxious -woman.” - -“Oh, Jane!” cried Rosalind, clasping her hands together with a little -cry of recognition and pleasure; this seemed to give such reality to the -tale. She knew very well that the faithful maid had gone with Mrs. -Trevanion; but to see her in this picture gave comfort to her heart. - -“You knew her? She seemed to be very anxious about her mistress, very -careful of her. Miss Trevanion, it may very well be that in my -wanderings I may meet with them again. Shall I say anything? Shall I -carry a message?” - -Rosalind found her voice choked with tears. She made him a sign of -assent, unable to do more. - -“What shall I tell her? That you trust me--that I am a messenger from -you? I would rather be your ambassador than the queen’s. Shall I say -that I have been so happy as to gain your confidence--or even perhaps--” - -“Oh, a little thing will do,” cried the girl; “she will understand you -as soon as you say that Rosalind--” - -He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon hers, his face full of -emotion. He put out his hand and touched hers, which was leaning on the -table. “Yes,” he said, “I will say that Rosalind--so long as you give me -an excuse for using that name.” - -Rosalind came to herself with a little shock. She withdrew her hand -hastily. “Perhaps I am saying too much,” she said. “It is only a dream, -and you may never see her. But I could not bear that you should imagine -we did not speak of her, or that I did not love her, and trust her,” she -added, drawing a long breath. “This is a great deal too much about me, -and you had begun to tell me of your own arrangements,” Rosalind said, -drawing her chair aside a little in instinctive alarm. It was the sound -she made in doing so which called the attention of John Trevanion--or, -rather, which moved him to turn his steps that way, his attention having -been already attracted by the fixed and jealous gaze of Roland, who had -sat with his face towards the group by the writing-table ever since his -rival had followed Rosalind there. - -Rivers saw that his chance was over, with a sigh, yet not perhaps with -all the vehement disappointment of a youth. He had made a beginning, and -perhaps he was not yet ready to go any further, though his feelings -might have hurried him on too hastily, injudiciously, had no -interruption occurred. But he had half frightened without displeasing -her, which, as he was an experienced man, was a condition of things he -did not think undesirable. There is a kind of fright which, to be -plunged into yet escape from, to understand without being forced to come -to any conclusion, suits the high, fantastical character of a young -maiden’s awakening feelings. And then before he, who was of a race so -different, could actually venture to ask a Miss Trevanion of Highcourt -to marry him, a great many calculations and arrangements were necessary. -He thought John Trevanion, who was a man of the world, looked at him -with a certain surprise and disapproval, asking himself, perhaps, what -such a man could have to offer, what settlements he could make, what -establishment he could keep up. - -“Are not you cold in this corner,” John said, “so far from the fire, -Rosalind?--and you are a chilly creature. Run away and get yourself -warm.” He took her chair as she rose, and sat down with an evident -intention of continuing the conversation. As a matter of fact, John -Trevanion was not asking himself what settlements a newspaper -correspondent could make. He was thinking of other things. He gave a nod -of his head towards the portrait, and said in a low tone, “She has been -talking to you of _her_.” - -Rivers was half disappointed, half relieved. It proved to him, he -thought, that he was too insignificant a pretender to arouse any alarm -in Rosalind’s relations, which was a galling thought. At the same time -it was better that he should have made up his mind more completely what -he was to say, before he exposed himself to any questioning on the -subject. So he answered with a simple “Yes.” - -“We cannot make up our minds to think any harm of her,” said Trevanion, -leaning his head on his hand. “The circumstances are very strange, too -strange for me to attempt to explain. And what you said seemed damaging -enough. But I want you to know that I share somehow that instinctive -confidence of Rosalind’s. I believe there must be some explanation, even -of the--companion--” - -Rivers could not but smile a little, but he kept the smile carefully to -himself. He was not so much interested in the woman he did not know as -he was in the young creature who, he hoped, might yet make a revolution -in his life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -It was not very long after this that one of “England’s little wars” -broke out--not a little war in so far as loss and cost went, but yet one -of those convulsions that go on far from us, that only when they are -identified by some dreadful and tragic incident really rouse the -nation. It is more usual now than it used to be to have the note of -horror struck in this way, and Rivers was one of the most important -instructors of the English public in such matters. He went up to the -Elms in the morning, an unusual hour, to tell his friends there that he -was ordered off at once, and to bid them good-bye. He made as little as -possible of his own special mission, but there was no disguising the -light of excitement, anxiety, and expectation that was in his eyes. - -“If I were a soldier,” he said, “I should feel myself twice as -interesting; and Sophy perhaps would give me her ribbon to wear in my -cap; but a newspaper correspondent has his share of the kicks, and not -much of the ha’pence, in the way of glory at least.” - -“Oh, I think quite the reverse,” said Mrs. Lennox, always anxious to -please and encourage; “because you know we should never know anything -about it at home, but for you.” - -“And the real ha’pence do fall to your share, and not to the soldiers,” -said John. - -“Well, perhaps it does pay better, which you will think an ignoble -distinction,” he said, turning to Rosalind with a laugh. “But picking up -news is not without danger any more than inflicting death is, and the -trouble we take to forestall our neighbors is as hard as greater -generalship.” He was very uneasy, looking anxiously from one to another. -The impossibility of getting these people out of the way! What device -would do it? he wondered. Mrs. Lennox sat in her chair by the fire with -her crewel work as if she would never move; Sophy had a holiday and was -pervading the room in all corners at once; and John Trevanion was -writing at Rosalind’s table, with the composure of a man who had no -intention of being disturbed. How often does this hopeless condition of -affairs present itself when but one chance remains for the anxious -lover! Had Rivers been a duke, the difficulty might easily have been got -over, but he whose chief hope is not in the family, but in favor of the -lady herself, has a more difficult task. Mrs. Lennox, he felt convinced, -would have no desire to clear the way for him, and as for Mr. Trevanion, -it was too probable that even had the suitor been a duke, on the eve of -a long and dangerous expedition, he would have watched over Rosalind’s -tranquillity and would not have allowed her to be disturbed. It was a -hopeless sort of glance which the lover threw round him, ending in an -unspoken appeal. They were very kind to him; had he wanted money or help -of influence, or any support to push him on in the world, John -Trevanion, a true friend to all whom he esteemed, would have given it. -But Rosalind--they would not give him five minutes with Rosalind to save -his life. - -Mrs. Lennox, however, whose amiability always overcame her prudence, -caught the petition in his eyes and interpreted it after her own -fashion. - -“Dear me,” she said, “how sorry we shall be to lose you! But you really -must stay to lunch. The last time! You could not do less for us than -that. And we shall drink your health and wish you a happy return.” - -“That will do him so much good; when he must have a hundred things to -do.” - -“The kindness will do me good. Yes, I have a hundred things to do, but -since Mrs. Lennox is so kind; it will do me more good than anything,” -Rivers said. His eyes were glistening as if there was moisture in them; -and Rosalind, looking up and perceiving the restlessness of anxiety in -his face, was affected by a sympathetic excitement. She began to realize -what the position was--that he was going away, and might never see her -again. She would be sorry too. It would be a loss of importance, a sort -of coming down in the world, to have no longer this man--not a boy, like -Roland; a man whose opinions people looked up to, who was one of the -instructors and oracles of the world--depending upon her favor. There -was perhaps more than this, a slightly responsive sentiment on her own -part, not like his, but yet something--an interest, a liking. Her heart -began to beat; there was a sort of anguish in his eyes which moved her -more, she thought, than she had ever been moved before--a force of -appeal to her which she could scarcely resist. But what could she do? -She could not, any more than he could, clear the room of the principal -persons in it, and give him the chance of speaking to her. Would she do -it if she could?--she thought she would not. But yet she was agitated -slightly, sympathetically, and gave him an answering look in which, in -the excitement of the moment, he read a great deal more than there was -to read. Was this to be all that was to pass between them before he went -away? How commonplace the observations of the others seemed to them -both! especially to Rivers, whose impatience was scarcely to be -concealed, and who looked at the calm, every-day proceedings of the -heads of the house with a sense that they were intolerable, yet a -consciousness that the least sign of impatience would be fatal to him. - -“Are you frightened, then, Mr. Rivers, that you look so strange?” said -Sophy, planting herself in front of him, and looking curiously into his -face. - -“Sophy, how can you be so rude?” Mrs. Lennox said. - -“I don’t think I am frightened--not yet,” he said, with a laugh. “It is -time enough when the fighting begins.” - -“Are you very frightened _then_? It is not rudeness; I want to know. It -must be very funny to go into battle. I should not have time to be -frightened, I should want to know how people feel--and I never knew any -one who was just going before. Did you ever want to run away?” - -“You know,” said Rivers, “I don’t fight, except with another newspaper -fellow, who shall get the news first.” - -“I am sure Mr. Rivers is frightened, for he has got tears in his eyes,” -said the _enfant terrible_. “Well, if they are not tears, it is -something that makes your eyes very shiny. You have always rather shiny -eyes. And you have never got a chair all this time, Mr. Rivers. Please -sit down; for to move about like that worries Aunt Sophy. You are as bad -as Rex when he comes home for the holidays. Aunt Sophy is always saying -she will not put up with it.” - -“Child!” cried Mrs. Lennox, with dismay, “what I say to you is not meant -for Mr. Rivers. Of course Mr. Rivers is a little excited. I am sure I -shall look for the newspapers, and read all the descriptions with twice -as much interest. Rosalind, I wish you would go and get some flowers. We -have none for the table. You were so busy this morning, you did not pay -any attention. Those we have here will do very well for to-day, but for -the table we want something fresh. Get some of those fine cactuses. They -are just the thing to put on the table for any one who is going to the -wars.” - -“Yes, Aunt Sophy,” said Rosalind, faintly. She saw what was coming, and -it frightened, yet excited her. “There is plenty of time. It will do -in--half an hour.” - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Lennox, with an absurd insistence, as if she meant -something, “you had better go at once.” - -“I am nervous, as Sophy has discovered, and can’t keep still,” said -Rivers. “May I go too?” - -Rosalind looked at him, on her side, with a kind of tremulous appeal, as -he took her basket out of her hand. It seemed to say “Don’t!” with a -distinct sense that it was vain to say so. Aunt Sophy, with that foolish -desire to please which went against all her convictions and baffled her -own purpose, looked up at them as they stood, Rosalind hesitating and he -so eager. “Yes, do; it will cheer you up a little,” the foolish guardian -said. - -And John Trevanion wrote on calmly, thinking nothing. They abandoned her -to her fate. It was such a chance as Rivers could not have hoped for. He -could scarcely contain himself as he followed her out of the room. She -went very slowly, hoping perhaps even now to be called back, though she -scarcely wished to be called back, and would have been disappointed too, -perhaps. She could not tell what her feelings were, nor what she was -going to do. Yet there came before her eyes as she went out a sudden -vision of the other, the stranger, he whom she did not know, who had -wooed her in the silence, in her dreams, and penetrated her eyes with -eyes not bright and keen, like those of Rivers, but pathetic, like -little Johnny’s. Was she going to forsake the visionary for the actual? -Rosalind felt that she too was going into battle, not knowing what might -come of it; into her first personal encounter with life and a crisis in -which she must act for herself. - -“I did not hope for anything like this,” he said, hurriedly; “a good -angel must have got it for me. I thought I should have to go without a -word.” - -“Oh, no! there will be many more words; you have promised Aunt Sophy to -stay to lunch.” - -“To see you in the midst of the family is almost worse than not seeing -you at all. Miss Trevanion, you must know. Perhaps I am doing wrong to -take advantage of their confidence, but how can I help it? Everything in -the world is summed up to me in this moment. Say something to me! To -talk of love in common words seems nothing. I know no words that mean -half what I mean. Say you will think of me sometimes when I am away.” - -Rosalind trembled very much in spite of all she could do to steady -herself. They had gone through the hall without speaking, and it was -only when they had gained the shelter of the conservatory, in which they -were safe from interruption, that he thus burst forth. The interval had -been so breathless and exciting that every emotion was intensified. She -did not venture to look up at him, feeling as if something might take -flame at his eyes. - -“Mr. Rivers, I could say that very easily, but perhaps it would not mean -what you think.” - -“Yes,” he said, “I see how it is; the words are too small for me, and -you would mean just what they say. I want them to mean a great deal -more, everything, as mine do. At my age,” he said, with an agitated -smile--“for I am too old for you, besides being not good enough in any -way--at my age I ought to have the sense to speak calmly, to offer you -as much as I can, which is no great things; but I have got out of my own -control, Rosalind. Well, yes, let me say that--a man’s love is worth -that much, to call the girl whom he loves Rosalind--Rosalind. I could go -on saying it, and die so, like Perdita’s prince. All exaggerated -nonsense and folly, I know, I know, and yet all true.” - -She raised her head for a moment and gave him a look in which there was -a sort of tender gratitude yet half-reproach, as if entreating him to -spare her that outburst of passion, to meet which she was so entirely -prepared. - -“I understand,” he said; “I can see into your sweet mind as if it were -open before me, I am so much older than you are. But the love ought to -be most on the man’s side. I will take whatever you will give me--a -little, a mere alms!--if I cannot get any more. If you say only _that_, -that you will think of me sometimes when I am away, and mean only that, -and let me come back, if I come back, and see--what perhaps Providence -may have done for me in the meantime--” - -“Mr. Rivers, I will think of you often. Is it possible I could do -otherwise after what you say? But when you come back, if you find that I -do not--care for you more than now--” - -“Do you care for me at all now, Rosalind?” - -“In one way, but not as you want me. I must tell you the truth. I am -always glad when you come, I shall be very glad when you come back, but -I could not--I could not--” - -“You could not--marry me, Rosalind?” - -She drew back a little from his side. She said “No” in a quick, startled -tone; then she added “Nor any one,” half under her breath. - -“Nor any one,” he repeated; “that is enough. And you will think of me -when I am away, and if I come back, I may come and ask? All this I will -accept on my knees, and, at present, ask for no more.” - -“But you must not expect--you must not make sure of--when you come -back--” - -“I will wait upon Providence and my good angel, Rosalind!” - -“What are you saying, Mr. Rivers, about angels and Rosalind? Do you call -her by her name, and do you think she is an angel? That is how people -talk in novels; I have read a great many. Why, you have got no flowers! -What have you been doing all this time? I made Aunt Sophy send me to -help you with the cactuses, and Uncle John said, ‘Well, perhaps it will -be better.’ But, oh, what idle things you are! The cactuses are not here -even. You look as if you had forgotten all about them, Rose.” - -“We knew you were sure to come, and waited for you,” said Rivers; “that -is to say, I did. I knew you were sure to follow. Here, Sophy, you and I -will go for the cactuses, and Miss Trevanion will sit down and wait for -us. Don’t you think that is the best way?” - -“You call her Miss Trevanion now, but you called her Rosalind when I was -not here. Oh, and I know you don’t care a bit for the flowers: you -wanted only to talk to her when Uncle John and Aunt Sophy were out of -the way.” - -“Don’t you think that was natural, Sophy? You are a wise little girl. -You are very fond of Uncle John and Aunt Sophy, but still now and then -you like to get away for a time, and tell your secrets.” - -“Were you telling your secrets to Rosalind? I am not _very_ fond of -them. I like to see what is going on, and to find people out.” - -“Shall I give you something to find out for me while I am away?” - -“Oh, yes, yes, do; that is what I should like,” cried Sophy, with her -little mischievous eyes dancing. “And I will write and tell you. But -then you must give me your address; I shall be the only one in the house -that knows your address; and I’ll tell you what they are all doing, -every one of them. There is nothing I should like so much,” Sophy cried. -She was so pleased with this idea that she forgot to ask what the -special information required by her future correspondent was. - -Meanwhile Rosalind sat among the flowers, hearing the distant sound of -their voices, with her heart beating and all the color and brightness -round flickering unsteadily in her eyes. She did not know what she had -done, or if she had done anything; if she had pledged herself, or if she -were still free. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -It happened after these events that sickness crept into Mrs. Lennox’s -cheerful house. One of the children had a lingering fever; and Aunt -Sophy herself was troubled with headaches, and not up to the mark, the -doctor said. This no doubt arose, according to the infallible decrees of -sanitary science, from some deficiency in the drainage, notwithstanding -that a great deal of trouble had already been taken, and that a local -functionary and expert in such matters had been almost resident in the -house for some months, to set right these sources of all evil. As soon, -however, as it was understood that for the sixth or seventh time the -house would have to be undermined, Mrs. Lennox came to a resolution -which, as she said, she had “always intended;” and that was to “go -abroad.” To go abroad is a thing which recommends itself to most women -as an infallible mode of procuring pleasure. They may not like it when -they are there. Foreign “ways” may be a weariness to their souls, and -foreign languages a series of unholy mysteries which they do not attempt -to fathom; but going abroad is a panacea for all dulness and a good many -maladies. The Englishwoman of simple mind is sure that she will be -warmed and soothed, that the sun will always shine, the skies never -rain, and everything go to her wish “abroad.” She returns discontented; -but she goes away always hopeful, scarcely able to conceive that gray -skies and cold winds prevail anywhere except in her own island. Mrs. -Lennox was of this simple-minded order. When she was driven to the -depths of her recollection she could, indeed, remember a great many -instances to the contrary, but in the abstract she felt that these were -accidents, and, the likelihood was, would never occur again. And then it -would be so good for the children! They would learn languages without -knowing, without any trouble at all. With this happy persuasion English -families every day convey their hapless babes into the depths of -Normandy, for example, to learn French. Mrs. Lennox went to the Riviera, -as was inevitable, and afterwards to other places, thinking it as well, -as she said, while they were abroad, to see as much as possible. It was -no small business to get the little caravansary under way, and when it -was accomplished it may be doubted how much advantage it was to the -children for whose good, according to Aunt Sophy, the journey was -prolonged. Little Amy and Johnny wandered with big eyes after the nurse -who had replaced Russell, through Rome and Florence, and gazed alarmed -at the towers of Bologna, which the children thought were falling upon -them, without deriving very much instruction from the sight. - -It was a thoroughly English party, like many another, carrying its own -little atmosphere about it and all its insular customs. The first thing -they did on arriving at a new place was to establish a little England in -the foreign hotel or _chambres garnies_ which they occupied. The -sitting-room at the inn took at once a kind of _faux_ air of the -dining-room at the Elms, Mrs. Lennox’s work and her basket of crewels -and her footstool being placed in the usual exact order, and a -writing-table arranged for the family letters in the same light as that -approved at home. And then there were elaborate arrangements for the -nursery dinner at a proper nursery hour, and for roast mutton and rice -pudding, such as were fit food for British subjects of the age of nine -and seven. Then the whereabouts of the English church was inquired into, -and the English chemist, and the bookshop where English books, and -especially the editions of Baron Tauchnitz, and perhaps English -newspapers, might be had. Having ascertained all this, and to the best -of her power obliterated all difference between Cannes, or Genoa, or -Florence, or even Rome, and the neighborhood of Clifton, Mrs. Lennox -began to enjoy herself in a mild way. She took her daily drive, and -looked at the Italians from her carriage with a certain disapproval, -much curiosity, and sometimes amusement. She disapproved of them because -they were not English, in a general way. She was too sweet-tempered to -conclude, as some of the ladies did whom she met at the hotel, that they -were universally liars, cheats, and extortioners; but they were not -English; though, perhaps, poor things, that was not exactly their fault. - -This was how she travelled, and in a sober way enjoyed it. She thought -the Riviera very pretty, if there were not so many sick people about; -and Florence very pretty too. “But I have been here before, you know, my -dear,” she said; therefore her admiration was calm, and never rose into -any of the raptures with which Rosalind sometimes was roused by a new -landscape. She lived just as she would have done if she had never -stirred from home, and was moderately happy, as happy as a person of her -age has any right to be. The children came to her at the same hours, -they had their dinner and walk at the same hours, and they all went to -church on Sunday just in the same way. The _table d’hôte_, at which she -usually dined with Rosalind, was the only difference of importance -between her life as a traveller and her life at home. She thought it was -rather like a dinner-party without the trouble, and as she soon got to -know a select little “set” of English of her own condition in her -hotel, and sat with them, the public table grew more and more like a -private one, except in so far as that all the guests had the delightful -privilege of finding fault. The clergyman called upon her, and made -little appeals to her for deserving cases, and pleaded that Rosalind -should help in the music, and talked the talk of a small parish to her -contented ears. All this made her very much at home, while still -enjoying the gentle excitement of being abroad. And at the end of six -months Mrs. Lennox began to feel that she was quite a cosmopolitan, able -to adapt herself to all circumstances, and getting the full good of -foreign travel, which, as she declared she was doing it entirely for the -children, was a repayment of her goodness upon which she had not -calculated. “I feel quite a woman of the world,” was what Aunt Sophy -said. - -Perhaps, however, Rosalind, placed as she was between the children and -their guardian, neither too old nor too young for such enjoyment, was, -as lawyers say, the true beneficiary. She had the disadvantage of -visiting a great many places of interest with companions who did not -appreciate or understand them, it is true; with Aunt Sophy, who thought -that the pictures as well as the views were pretty; and with the sharp -little sister who thought picture-galleries and mountain landscapes -equally a bore. But, notwithstanding, with that capacity for separating -herself from her surroundings which belongs to the young, Rosalind was -able to get a great deal of enjoyment as she moved along in Mrs. -Lennox’s train. Aunts in general are not expected to care for scenery; -they care for being comfortable, for getting their meals, and especially -the children’s meals, at the proper time, and being as little disturbed -in their ordinary routine as possible. When this is fully granted, a -girl can usually manage to get a good deal of pleasure under their -portly shadow. Rosalind saw everything as if nobody had ever seen it -before; the most hackneyed scenes were newly created for her, and came -upon her with a surprise almost more delightful than anything in life, -certainly more delightful than anything that did not immediately -concern the heart and affections. She thought, indeed, sometimes -wistfully, that if it had been her mother, that never-to-be-forgotten -and always trusted friend, who could have understood everything and felt -with her, and added a charm wherever they went, the enjoyment would have -been far greater. But then her heart would fall into painful questions -as to where and with what companions that friend might now be, and rise -into prayers, sometimes that they might meet to-morrow, sometimes that -they might never meet--that nothing which could diminish her respect and -devotion should ever be made known to her. Then, too, sometimes Rosalind -would ask herself, in the leisure of her solitude, what this journey -might have been had _some one else_ been of the party? This _some one -else_ was not Roland Hamerton: that was certain. She could not say to -herself, either, that it was Arthur Rivers. It was--well, some one with -great eyes, dark and liquid, whose power of vision would be more -refined, more educated than that of Rosalind, who would know all the -associations and all the poetry, and make everything that was beautiful -before more beautiful by the charm of his superior knowledge. Perhaps -she felt, too, that it was more modest, more maidenly, to allow a -longing for the companionship of one whom she did not know, who was a -mere ideal, the symbol of love, or genius, or poetry, she did not know -which, than to wish in straightforward terms for the lover whom she -knew, who was a man, and not a symbol. Her imagination was too shy, too -proud, to summon up an actual person, substantial and well known. It was -more easy and simple, more possible, to fill that fancy with an image -that had no actual embodiment, and to call to her side the being who was -nothing more than a recollection, whose very name and everything about -him was unknown to her. She accepted him as a symbol of all that a -dreaming girl desires in a companion. He was a dream; there need be no -bounds to the enthusiasm, the poetry, the fine imagination, with which -she endowed him, any more than there need be to the devotion to -herself, which was a mere dream also. He might woo her as men only woo -in the imagination of girls, so delicately, so tenderly, with such -ethereal worship. How different the most glorious road would be were he -beside her! though in reality he was beside her all the way, saying -things which were finer than anything but fancy, breathing the very soul -of rapture into her being. The others knew nothing of all this; how -should they? And Mrs. Lennox, for one, sometimes asked herself whether -Rosalind was really enjoying her travels. “She says so little,” that -great authority said. - -There was, however, little danger that she should forget one, at least, -of her actual lovers. In the meantime a great deal had been going on in -the world, and especially in that distant part of it to which Rivers had -gone. The little war which he had gone to report had turned into a most -exciting and alarming one; and there had been days in which the whole -world, so to speak--all England at least, and her dependencies--had hung -upon his utterance, and looked for his communications every morning -almost before they looked at those which came from their nearest and -dearest. And it was said that he had excelled himself in these -communications. He had done things which were heroic, if not to hasten -the conclusion of the war, to make it successful, yet at least to convey -the earliest intelligence of any new action, and to make people at home -feel as if they were present upon the very field, spectators of all the -movements there. - -This service involved him in as much danger as if he had been in the -very front of the fighting; and, indeed, he was known to have done -feats, for what is called the advantage of the public, to which the -stand made by a mere soldier, even in the most urgent circumstances, was -not to be compared. All this was extremely interesting, not to say -exciting, to his friends. Mrs. Lennox had the paper sent after her -wherever she travelled; and, indeed, it was great part of her day’s -occupation to read it, which she did with devotion. “The correspondent -is a friend of ours,” she said to the other English people in the -hotels. “We know him, I may say, very well, and naturally I take a great -interest.” The importance of his position as the author of those letters -which interested everybody, and even the familiar way in which he talked -of generals and commanders-in-chief, impressed her profoundly. As for -Rosalind, she said nothing, but she, too, read all about the war with an -attention which was breathless, not quite sure in her mind that it was -not under a general’s helmet that those crisp locks of gray were -curling, or that the vivid eyes which had looked into hers with such -expression were not those of the hero of the campaign. It did not seem -possible, somehow, that he could be less than a general. She took the -paper to her room in the evening, when Aunt Sophy had done with it, and -read and read. The charm was upon her that moved Desdemona, and it was -difficult to remember that the teller of the tale was not the chief -mover in it. How could she help but follow him in his wanderings -wherever he went? It was the least thing she could do in return for what -he had given to her--for that passion which had made her tremble--which -she wondered at and admired as if it had been poetry. All this -captivated the girl’s fancy in spite of herself, and gave her an -extraordinary interest in everything he said, and that was said of him. -But, notwithstanding, it was not Mr. Rivers who accompanied her in the -spirit on all the journeys she made, and to all the beautiful places -which filled her with rapture. Not Mr. Rivers--a visionary person, one -whose very name was to her unknown. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -The events of the night on which Mrs. Trevanion left Highcourt had at -this period of the family story fallen into that softened oblivion which -covers the profoundest scars of the heart after a certain passage of -time, except sometimes to the chief actor in such scenes, who naturally -takes a longer period to forget. - -She on whom the blow had fallen at a moment when she was unprepared for -it, when a faint sense of security had begun to steal over her in spite -of herself, had received it _en plein cœur_, as the French say. We have -no word which expresses so well the unexpected, unmitigated shock. She -had said to herself, like the captive king in the Bible, that the -bitterness of death was past, and had gone, like that poor prince, -“delicately,” with undefended bosom, and heart hushed out of its first -alarms, to meet her fate. The blow had gone through her very flesh, -rending every delicate tissue before she had time to think. It does not -even seem a metaphor to say that it broke her heart, or, rather, cut the -tender structure sheer in two, leaving it bleeding, quivering, in her -bosom. She was not a woman to faint or die at a stroke. She took the -torture silently, without being vanquished by it. When nature is strong -within us, and the force of life great, there is no pang spared. And -while in one sense it was true that for the moment she expected nothing, -the instantly following sensation in Madam’s mind was that she had known -all along what was going to happen to her, and that it had never been -but certain that this must come. Even the details of the scene seemed -familiar. She had always known that some time or other these men would -look at her so, would say just those words to her, and that she would -stand and bear it all, a victim appointed from the beginning. In the -greater miseries of life it happens often that the catastrophe, however -unexpected, bears, when it comes, a familiar air, as of a thing which -has been mysteriously rehearsed in our consciousness all our lives. -After the first shock, her mind sprang with a bound to those immediate -attempts to find a way of existence on the other side of the impossible, -which was the first impulse of the vigorous soul. She said little even -to Jane until the dreary afternoon was over, the dinner, with its -horrible formulas, and she had said what was really her farewell to -everything at Highcourt. Then, when the time approached for the meeting -in the park, she began to prepare for going out with a solemnity which -startled her faithful attendant. She took from her desk a sum which she -had kept in reserve (who can tell for what possibility?), and dressed -herself carefully, not in her new mourning, with all its crape, but in -simple black from head to foot. She always had worn a great deal of -black lace; it had been her favorite costume always. She enveloped -herself in a great veil which would have fallen almost to her feet had -it been unfolded, doing everything for herself, seeking the things she -wanted in her drawers with a silent diligence which Jane watched with -consternation. At last the maid could restrain herself no longer. - -“Am I to do nothing for you?” she cried, with anguish. “And, oh! where -are you going? What are you doing? There’s something more than I -thought.” - -“You are to do everything for me, Jane,” her mistress said, with a -pathetic smile. “You are to be my sole companion all the rest of my -life--unless, if it is not too late, that poor boy.” - -“Madam,” Jane said, putting her hand to her heart with a natural tragic -movement, “you are not going to desert--the children? Oh, no! you are -not thinking of leaving the children?” - -Her mistress put her hands upon Jane’s shoulders, clutching her, and -gave vent to a low laugh more terrible than any cry. “It is more -wonderful than that--more wonderful--more, ah, more ridiculous. Don’t -cry. I can’t bear it. They have sent me away. Their father--has sent me -away!” - -“Madam!” Jane’s shriek would have rung through the house had it not been -for Madam’s imperative gesture and the hand she placed upon her mouth. - -“Not a word! Not a word! I have not told you before, for I cannot bear a -word. It is true, and nothing can be done. Dress yourself now, and put -what we want for the night in your bag. I will take nothing. Oh, that is -a small matter, a very small matter, to provide all that will be wanted -for two poor women. Do you remember, Jane, how we came here?” - -“Oh, well, well, Madam. You a beautiful bride, and nothing too much for -you, nothing good enough for you.” - -“Yes, Jane; but leaving my duty behind me. And now it is repaid.” - -“Oh, Madam, Madam! He was too young to know the loss; and it was for his -own sake. And besides, if that were all, it’s long, long ago--long, long -ago.” - -Mrs. Trevanion’s hands dropped by her side. She turned away with another -faint laugh of tragic mockery. “It is long, long ago; long enough to -change everything. Ah, not so long ago but that he remembers it, Jane. -And now the time is come when I am free, if I can, to make it up. I have -always wondered if the time would ever come when I could try to make it -up.” - -“Madam, you have never failed to him, except in not having him with -you.” - -“Except in all that was my duty, Jane. He has known no home, no care, no -love. Perhaps now, if it should not be too late--” - -And then she resumed her preparations with that concentrated calm of -despair which sometimes apes ordinary composure so well as to deceive -the lookers-on. Jane could not understand what was her lady’s meaning. -She followed her about with anxious looks, doing nothing on her own part -to aid, paralyzed by the extraordinary suggestion. Madam was fully -equipped before Jane had stirred, except to follow wistfully every step -Mrs. Trevanion took. - -“Are you not coming?” she said at length. “Am I to go alone? For the -first time in our lives do you mean to desert me, Jane?” - -“Madam,” cried the woman, “it cannot be--it cannot be! You must be -dreaming; we cannot go without the children.” She stood wringing her -hands, beyond all capacity of comprehension, thinking her mistress mad -or criminal, or under some great delusion--she could not tell which. - -Mrs. Trevanion looked at her with strained eyes that were past tears. -“Why,” she said, “why--did you not say so seventeen years ago, Jane?” - -“Oh, Madam,” cried Jane, seizing her mistress by the hands, “don’t do it -another time! They are all so young, they want you. It can’t do them any -good, but only harm, if you go away. Oh, Madam, listen to me that loves -you. Who have I but you in the world? But don’t leave them. Oh, don’t we -both know the misery it brings? You may be doing it thinking it will -make up. But God don’t ask these kind of sacrifices,” she cried, the -tears running down her cheeks. “_He_ don’t ask it. He says, mind your -duty now, whatever’s been done in the past. Don’t try to be making up -for it, the Lord says, Madam; but just do your duty now; it’s all that -we can do.” - -Mrs. Trevanion listened to this address, which was made with streaming -eyes and a face quivering with emotion, in silence. She kept her eyes -fixed on Jane’s face as if the sight of the tears was a refreshment to -her parched soul. Her own eyes were dry, with that smile in them which -answers at some moments in place of weeping. - -“You cut me to the heart,” she said, “every word. Oh, but I am not -offering God any vain sacrifices, thinking to atone. He has taken it -into his own hand. Life repeats itself, though we never think so. What I -did once for my own will God makes me do over again not of my own will. -He has his meaning clear through all, but I don’t know what it is, I -cannot fathom it.” She said this quickly, with the settled quietness of -despair. Then, the lines of her countenance melting, her eyes lit up -with a forlorn entreaty, as she touched Jane on the shoulder, and asked, -“Are you coming? You will not let me go alone--” - -“Oh, Madam, wherever you go--wherever you go! I have never done anything -but follow you. I can neither live nor die without you,” Jane answered, -hurriedly; and then, turning away, tied on her bonnet with trembling -hands. Madam had done everything else; she had left nothing for Jane to -provide. They went out together, no longer alarmed to be seen--two dark -figures, hurrying down the great stairs. But the languor that follows -excitement had got into the house: there were no watchers about; the -whole place seemed deserted. She, who that morning had been the mistress -of Highcourt, went out of the home of so many years without a soul to -mark her going or bid her good-speed. But the anguish of the parting was -far too great to leave room for any thought of the details. They stepped -out into the night, into the dark, to the sobbing of the wind and the -wildly blowing trees. The storm outside gave them a little relief from -that which was within. - -Madam went swiftly, softly along, with that power of putting aside the -overwhelming consciousness of wretchedness which is possessed by those -whose appointed measure of misery is the largest in this world. To die -then would have been best, but not to be helpless and encounter the pity -of those who could give no aid. She had the power not to think, to -address herself to what was before her, and hold back “upon the -threshold of the mind” the supreme anguish of which she could never be -free, which there would be time enough, alas! and to spare, to indulge -in. Perhaps, though she knew so much and was so experienced in pain, it -did not occur to her at this terrible crisis of life to think it -possible that any further pang might be awaiting her. The other, who -waited for her within shade of the copse, drew back when he perceived -that two people were coming towards him. He scarcely responded even when -Mrs. Trevanion called him in a low voice by name. “Whom have you got -with you?” he said, almost in a whisper, holding himself concealed among -the trees. - -“Only Jane.” - -“Only Jane,” he said, in a tone of relief, but still with a roughness -and sullenness out of keeping with his youthful voice. He added, after a -moment, “What does Jane want? I hope there is not going to be any -sentimental leave-taking. I want to stay and not to go.” - -“That is impossible now. Everything is altered. I am going with you, -Edmund.” - -“Going with me--good Lord!” There was a moment’s silence; then he -resumed in a tone of satire, “What may that be for? Going with _me_! Do -you think I can’t take care of myself? Do you think I want a nurse at my -heels?” Then another pause. “I know what you mean. You are going away -for a change, and you mean me to turn up easily and be introduced to the -family? Not a bad idea at all,” he added, in a patronizing tone. - -“Edmund,” she said, “afterwards, when we have time, I will tell you -everything. There is no time now; but that has come about which I -thought impossible. I am--free to make up to you as much as I can, for -the past--” - -“Free,” he repeated, with astonishment, “to make up to me?” The pause -that followed seemed one of consternation. Then he went on roughly, “I -don’t know what you mean by making up to me. I have often heard that -women couldn’t reason. You don’t mean that you are flinging over the -others now, to make a romance--and balance matters? I don’t know what -you mean.” - -Madam Trevanion grasped Jane’s arm and leaned upon it with what seemed a -sudden collapse of strength, but this was invisible to the other, who -probably was unaware of any effect produced by what he said. Her voice -came afterwards through the dark with a thrill in it that seemed to move -the air, something more penetrating than the wind. - -“I have no time to explain,” she said. “I must husband my strength, -which has been much tried. I am going with you to London to-night. We -have a long walk before we reach the train. On the way, or afterwards, -as my strength serves me, I will tell you--all that has happened. What I -am doing,” she added, faintly, “is by no will of mine.” - -“To London to-night?” he repeated, with astonishment. “I am not going to -London to-night.” - -“Yes, Edmund, with me. I want you.” - -“I have wanted,” he said, “you--or, at least, I have wanted my proper -place and the people I belonged to, all my life. If you think that now, -when I am a man, I am to be burdened with two women always at my -heels-- Why can’t you stay and make everything comfortable here? I want -my rights, but I don’t want you--more than is reasonable,” he added -after a moment, slightly struck by his own ungraciousness. “As for -walking to the train, and going to London to-night--you, a fine lady, -that have always driven about in your carriage!” He gave a hoarse little -laugh at the ridiculous suggestion. - -Mrs. Trevanion again clutched Jane’s arm. It was the only outlet for her -excitement. She said very low, “I should not have expected better--oh, -no; how could he know better, after all! But I must go, there is no -choice. Edmund, if anything I can do now can blot out the past--no, not -that--but make up for it. You too, you have been very tyrannical to me -these months past. Hush! let me speak, it is quite true. If you could -have had patience, all might have been so different. Let us not upbraid -each other--but if you will let me, all that I can do for you now--all -that is possible--” - -There was another pause. Jane, standing behind, supported her mistress -in her outstretched arms, but this was not apparent, nor any other sign -of weakness, except that her voice quivered upon the dark air which was -still in the shadow of the copse. - -“I have told you,” he said, “again and again, what would please me. We -can’t be much devoted to each other, can we, after all! We can’t be a -model of what’s affectionate. That was all very well when I was a child, -when I thought a present was just as good, or better. But now I know -what is what, and that something more is wanted. Why can’t you stay -still where you are and send for me? You can say I’m a relation. I don’t -want you to sacrifice yourself--what good will that do me? I want to get -the advantage of my relations, to know them all, and have my chance. -There’s one thing I’ve set my heart upon, and you could help me in that -if you liked. But to run away, good Lord! what good would that do? It’s -all for effect, I suppose, to make me think you are willing now to do a -deal for me. You can do a deal for me if you like, but it will be by -staying, not by running away.” - -“Jane,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “he does not understand me; how should he? -you did not understand me at first. It is not that he means anything. -And how can I tell him?--not here, I am not able. After, when we are far -away, when I am out of reach, when I have got a little--strength--” - -“Madam!” said Jane, “if it is true, if you have to do it, if we must go -to-night, don’t stand and waste all the little strength you have got -standing here.” - -He listened to this conversation with impatience, yet with a growing -sense that something lay beneath which would confound his hopes. He was -not sympathetic with her trouble. How could he have been so? Had not her -ways been contrary to his all his life? But a vague dread crept over -him. He had thought himself near the object of his hopes, and now -disappointment seemed to overshadow him. He looked angrily, with -vexation and gathering dismay, at the dark figures of the two women, one -leaning against the other. What did she mean now? How was she going to -baffle him this time--she who had been contrary to him all his life? - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -It was a long walk through the wind and blasts of rain, and the country -roads were very dark and wet--not a night for a woman to be out in, much -less a lady used to drive everywhere in her carriage, as he had said, -and less still for one whose strength had been wasted by long -confinement in a sick-room, and whose very life was sapped by secret -pain. But these things, which made it less possible for Mrs. Trevanion -to bear the fatigues to which she was exposed, reacted on the other -side, and made her unconscious of the lesser outside evils which were as -nothing in comparison with the real misery from which no expedient could -set her free. She went along mechanically, conscious of a fatigue and -aching which were almost welcome--which lulled a little the other misery -which lay somewhere awaiting her, waiting for the first moment of -leisure, the time when she should be clear-headed enough to understand -and feel it all to the fullest. When they came into the light at the -nearest railway station the two women were alone. They got into an empty -carriage and placed themselves each in a corner, and, like St. Paul, -wished for day; but yet the night was welcome too, giving their -proceedings an air of something strange and out of all the habits of -their life, which partially, momentarily, confused the every-day aspect -of things around, and made this episode in existence all unnatural and -unreal. It was morning, the dark, grim morning of winter, without light -or color, when Mrs. Trevanion suddenly spoke for the first time. She -said, as if thinking aloud, “It was not to be expected. Why should he, -when he knows so little of me?” as if reasoning with herself. - -“No, Madam,” said Jane. - -“If he had been like others, accustomed to these restraints--for no -doubt it is a restraint--” - -“Oh, yes, Madam.” - -“And perhaps with time and use,” she said, sighing and faltering. - -“Yes, Madam,” said Jane. - -“Why do you say no and yes,” she cried, with sudden vehemence, “as if -you had no opinion of your own?” - -Then Jane faltered too. “Madam,” she said, “everything is to be hoped -from--time, as you say, and use--” - -“You don’t think so,” her mistress replied, with a moan, and then all -settled into silence again. - -It is not supposed that anything save vulgar speed and practical -convenience is to be got from the railway; and yet there is nothing that -affords a better refuge and shelter from the painful thoughts that -attend a great catastrophe in life, and those consultations which an -individual in deep trouble holds with himself, than a long, silent -journey at the desperate pace of an express train over the long, dark -sweeps of the scarcely visible country, with the wind of rapid progress -in one’s face. That complete separation from all disturbance, the din -that partially deadens in our ears the overwhelming commotion of brain -and heart, the protection which is afforded by the roar and sweep of hot -haste which holds us as in a sanctuary of darkness, peace, and solitude, -is a paradox of every-day life which few think of, yet which is grateful -to many. Mrs. Trevanion sank into it with a sensation which was almost -ease. She lay back in her corner, as a creature wounded to death lies -still after the anguish of medical care is ended, throbbing, indeed, -with inevitable pain, yet with all horror of expectation over, and -nothing further asked of the sufferer. If not the anguish, at least the -consciousness of anguish was deadened by the sense that here no one -could demand anything from her, any response, any look, any word. She -lay for a long time dumb even in thought, counting the throbs that went -through her, feeling the sting and smart of every wound, yet a little -eased by the absolute separation between her and everything that could -ask a question or suggest a thought. It is not necessary for us in such -terrible moments to think over our pangs. The sufferer lies piteously -contemplating the misery that holds him, almost glad to be left alone -with it. For the most terrible complications of human suffering there is -no better image still than that with which the ancients portrayed the -anguish of Prometheus on his rock. There he lies, bound and helpless, -bearing evermore the rending of the vulture’s beak, sometimes writhing -in his bonds, uttering hoarsely the moan of his appeal to earth and -heaven, crying out sometimes the horrible cry of an endurance past -enduring, anon lying silent, feeling the dew upon him, hearing soft -voices of pity, comforters that tell him of peace to come, sometimes -softening, sometimes only increasing his misery; but through all -unending, never intermitting, the pain--“pain, ever, forever” of that -torture from which there is no escape. In all its moments of impatience, -in all its succumbings, the calm of anguish which looks like -resignation, the struggle with the unbearable which looks like -resistance, the image is always true. We lie bound and cannot escape. We -listen to what is said about us, the soft consoling of nature, the -voices of the comforters. Great heavenly creatures come and sit around -us, and talk together of the recovery to come; but meanwhile without a -pause the heart quivers and bleeds, the cruel grief tears us without -intermission. “Ah me, alas, pain, ever, forever!” - -If ever human soul had occasion for such a consciousness it was this -woman, cut off in a moment from all she loved best--from her children, -from her home, from life itself and honor, and all that makes life dear. -Her good name, the last possession which, shipwrecked in every other, -the soul in ruin and dismay may still derive some miserable satisfaction -from, had to be yielded too. A faint smile came upon her face, the -profoundest expression of suffering, when this thought, like another -laceration, separated itself from the crowd. A little more or less, was -that not a thing to be smiled at? What could it matter? All that could -be done to her was done; her spiritual tormentors had no longer the -power to give her another sensation; she had exhausted all their -tortures. Her good name, and that even in the knowledge of her children! -She smiled. Evil had done its worst. She was henceforward superior to -any torture, as knowing all that pain could do. - -There are some minds to which death is not a thought which is possible, -or a way of escape which ever suggests itself. Hamlet, in his musings, -in the sickness of his great soul, passes it indeed in review, but -rejects it as an unworthy and ineffectual expedient. And it is seldom -that a worthy human creature, when not at the outside verge of life, can -afford to die. There is always something to do which keeps every such -possibility in the background. To this thought after a time Mrs. -Trevanion came round. She had a great deal to do; she had still a -duty--a responsibility--was it perhaps a possibility, in life? There -existed for her still one bond, a bond partially severed for long, -apparently dropped out of her existence, yet never forgotten. The brief -dialogue which she had held with Jane had betrayed the condition of her -thoughts in respect to this one relationship which was left to her, as -it betrayed also the judgment of Jane on the subject. Both of these -women knew in their hearts that the young man who was now to be the only -interest of their lives had little in him which corresponded with any -ideal. He had not been kind, he had not been true; he thought of nothing -but himself, and yet he was all that now remained to make, to the woman -upon whom his folly had brought so many and terrible losses, the -possibility of a new life. When she saw the cold glimmer of the dawn, -and heard the beginnings of that sound of London, which stretches so far -round the centre on every side, Mrs. Trevanion awoke again to the living -problem which now was to occupy her wholly. She had been guilty towards -him almost all his life, and she had been punished by his means; but -perhaps it might be that there was still for her a place of repentance. -She had much to do for him, and not a moment to lose. She had the power -to make up to him now for all the neglect of the past. Realizing what he -was, unlike her in thought, in impulse, in wishes, a being who belonged -to her, yet who in heart and soul was none of hers, she rose up from the -terrible vigil of this endless night, to make her life henceforward the -servant of his, its guardian perhaps, its guide perhaps, but in any case -subject to it, as a woman at all times is subject to those for whom she -lives. She spoke again, when they were near their arrival, to her maid, -as if they had continued the subject throughout the night: “He will be -sure to follow us to-morrow night, Jane.” - -“I think so, Madam, for he will have nothing else to do.” - -“It was natural,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that he should hesitate to come -off in a moment. Why should he, indeed? There was nothing to break the -shock to him--as there was to us--” - -“To break the shock?” Jane murmured, with a look of astonishment. - -“You know what I mean,” her mistress said, with a little impatience. -“When things happen like the things that have happened, one does not -think very much of a midnight journey. Ah, what a small matter that is! -But one who has--nothing to speak of on his mind--” - -“He ought to have a great deal on his mind,” said Jane. - -“Ought! Yes, I suppose I ought to be half dead, and, on the contrary, I -am revived by the night journey. I am able for anything. There is no -ought in such matters--it is according to your strength.” - -“You have not slept a wink,” said Jane, in an injured voice. - -“There are better things than sleep. And he is young, and has not -learned yet the lesson that I have had such difficulty in learning.” - -“What lesson is that?” said Jane, quickly. “If it is to think of -everything and every one’s business, you have been indeed a long time -learning, for you have been at it all your life.” - -“It takes a long time to learn,” said Madam, with a smile; “the young do -not take it in so easily. Come, Jane, we are arriving; we must think now -of our new way of living.” - -“Madam,” cried Jane, “if there had been an earthquake at Highcourt, and -we had both perished in it trying to save the children--” - -“Jane! do you think it is wise when you are in great trouble to fix your -thoughts upon the greatest happiness in the world? To have perished at -Highcourt, you and me, trying--” Her face shone for a moment with a -great radiance. “You are a good woman,” she said, shaking her head, with -a smile, “but why should there be a miracle to save me? It is a miracle -to give me the chance of making up--for what is past.” - -“Oh, Madam, I wish I knew what to say to you,” cried Jane; “you will -just try your strength and make yourself miserable, and get no return.” - -Mrs. Trevanion laughed with a strange solemnity. She looked before her -into the vacant air, as if looking in the face of fate. What could make -her miserable now? Nothing--the worst that could be done had been done. -She said, but to herself, not to Jane, “There is an advantage in it, it -cannot be done over again.” Then she began to prepare for the arrival. -“We shall have a great deal to do, and we must lose no time. Jane, you -will go at once and provide some clothes for us. Whatever happens, we -must have clothes, and we must have food, you know. The other -things--life can go on without--” - -“Madam, for God’s sake, do not smile, it makes my blood run cold.” - -“Would you like me to cry, Jane? I might do that, too, but what the -better should we be? If I were to cry all to-day and to-morrow, the -moment would come when I should have to stop and smile again. And then,” -she said, turning hastily upon her faithful follower, “I can’t cry--I -can’t cry!” with a spasm of anguish going over her face. “Besides, we -are just arriving,” she added, after a moment; “we must not call for -remark. You and I, we are two poor women setting out upon the -world--upon a forlorn hope. Yes, that is it--upon a forlorn hope. We -don’t look like heroes, but that is what we are going to do, without any -banners flying, or music, but a good heart, Jane--a good heart!” - -With these words, she stepped out upon the crowded pavement at the great -London station. It was a very early hour in the morning, and there were -few people except the travellers and the porters about. They had no -luggage, which was a thing that confused Jane, and made her ashamed to -the bottom of her heart. She answered the questions of the porter with a -confused consciousness of something half disgraceful in their denuded -condition, and gave her bag into his hands with a shrinking and -trembling which made the poor soul, pallid with unaccustomed travelling, -and out of her usual prim order, look like a furtive fugitive. She half -thought the man looked at her as if she were a criminal escaping from -justice. Jane was ashamed: she thought the people in the streets looked -at the cab as it rattled out of the station with suspicion and surprise. -She looked forward to the arrival at the hotel with a kind of horror. -What would people think? Jane felt the real misery of the catastrophe -more than any one except the chief sufferer: she looked forward to the -new life about to begin with dismay; but nevertheless, at this miserable -moment, to come to London without luggage gave her the deepest pang of -all. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -Mrs. Trevanion remained for some time in London, where she was joined -reluctantly, after a few days, by Edmund. This young man had not been -educated on the level of Highcourt. He had been sent to a cheap school. -He had never known any relations, nor had any culture of the affections -to refine his nature. From his school, as soon as he was old enough, he -had been transferred to an office in Liverpool, where all the -temptations and attractions of the great town had burst upon him without -defence. Many young men have to support this ordeal, and even for those -who do not come through it without scathe, it is yet possible to do so -without ruinous loss and depreciation. But in that case the aberration -must be but temporary, and there must be a higher ideal behind to defend -the mind against that extinction of all belief in what is good which is -the most horrible result of vicious living. Whether Edmund fell into the -absolute depths of vice at all it is not necessary to inquire. He fell -into debt, and into unlawful ways of making up for his debts. When -discovery was not to be staved off any longer he had fled, not even then -touched with any compunction or shame, but with a strong certainty that -the matter against him would never be allowed to come to a public issue, -it being so necessary to the credit of the family that his relations -with Highcourt should never be made known to the world. It was with this -certainty that he had come to the village near Highcourt at the -beginning of Mr. Trevanion’s last illness. To prevent him from bursting -into her husband’s presence, and bringing on one of the attacks which -sapped his strength, Mrs. Trevanion had yielded to his demands on her, -and, as these increased daily, had exposed herself to remark and -scandal, and, as it proved, to ruin and shame. Did she think of that as -he sat opposite to her at the table, affording reluctantly the -information she insisted upon, betraying by almost every word a mind so -much out of tune with hers that the bond which connected them seemed -impossible? If she did think of this it was with the bitterest -self-reproach, rather than any complaint of him. “Poor boy,” she said to -herself, with her heart bleeding. She had informed him of the -circumstances under which she had left home, but without a word of blame -or intimation that the fault was his, and received what were really his -reproaches on this matter silently, with only that heart-breaking smile -in her eyes, which meant indulgence unbounded, forgiveness beforehand of -anything he might do or say. When Russell, breathing hatred and -hostility, came across her path, it was with the same sentiment that -Madam had succored the woman who had played so miserable a part in the -catastrophe. The whole history of the event was so terrible that she -could bear no comment upon it. Even Jane did not venture to speak to her -of the past. She was calm, almost cheerful, in what she was doing at the -moment, and she had a great deal to do. - -The first step she took was one which Edmund opposed with all his might, -with a hundred arguments more or less valid, and a mixture of terror and -temerity which it humiliated her to be a witness of. He was ready to -abandon all possibility of after-safety or of recovery of character, to -fly as a criminal to the ends of the earth, or to keep in hiding in -holes and corners, liable to be seized upon at any moment; but to take -any step to atone for what he had done, to restore the money, or attempt -to recover the position of a man innocent, or at least forgiven, were -suggestions that filled him with passion. He declared that such an -attempt would be ineffectual, that it would end by landing him in -prison, that it was madness to think she could do anything. She! so -entirely ignorant of business as she was. He ended, indeed, by -denouncing her as his certain ruin, when, in spite of all these -arguments, she set out for Liverpool, and left him in a paroxysm of -angry terror, forgetting both respect and civility in the passion of -opposition. Madam Trevanion did not shrink from this any more than from -the other fits of passion to which she had been exposed in her life. She -went to Liverpool alone, without even the company and support of Jane. -And there she found her mission not without difficulty. But the aspect -of the woman to whom fate had done its worst, who was not conscious of -the insignificant pain of a rebuff from a stranger, she who had borne -every anguish that could be inflicted upon a woman, had an impressive -influence which in the end triumphed over everything opposed to her. She -told the young man’s story with a composure from which it was impossible -to divine what her own share in it was, but with a pathos which touched -the heart of the master, who was not a hard man, and who knew the -dangers of such a youth better than she did. In the end she was -permitted to pay the money, and to release the culprit from all further -danger. Her success in this gave her a certain hope. As she returned her -mind went forward with something like a recollection of its old -elasticity, to what was at least a possibility in the future. Thus made -free, and with all the capacities of youth in him, might not some -softening and melting of the young man’s nature be hoped for--some -development of natural affection, some enlargement of life? She said to -herself that it might be so. He was not bad nor cruel--he was only -unaccustomed to love and care, careless, untrained to any higher -existence, unawakened to any better ideal. As she travelled back to -London she said to herself that he must have repented his passion, that -some compunction must have moved him, even, perhaps, some wish to atone. -“He will come to meet me,” she said to herself, with a forlorn movement -of anticipation in her mind. She felt so sure as she thought of this -expedient, by which he might show a wish to please her without bending -his pride to confess himself in the wrong, that when she arrived and, -amid the crowds at the railway, saw no one, her heart sank a little. But -in a moment she recovered, saying to herself, “Poor boy! why should he -come?” He had never been used to render such attentions. He was uneasy -in the new companionship, to which he was unaccustomed. Perhaps, indeed, -he was ashamed, wounded, mortified, by the poor part he played in it. To -owe his deliverance even to her might be humiliating to his pride. Poor -boy! Thus she explained and softened everything to herself. - -But Mrs. Trevanion found herself now the subject of a succession of -surprises very strange to her. She was brought into intimate contact -with a nature she did not understand, and had to learn the very alphabet -of a language unknown to her, and study impulses which left all her -experience of human nature behind, and were absolutely new. When he -understood that he was free, that everything against him was wiped off, -that he was in a position superior to anything he had ever dreamed of, -without need to work or deny himself, his superficial despair gave way -to a burst of pleasure and self-congratulation. Even then he was on his -guard not to receive with too much satisfaction the advantages of which -he had in a moment become possessed, lest perhaps he should miss -something more that might be coming. The unbounded delight which filled -him when he found himself in London, with money in his pocket, and -freedom, showed itself, indeed, in every look; but he still kept a wary -eye upon the possibilities of the future, and would not allow that what -he possessed was above his requirements or hopes. And when he perceived -that the preparations for a further journey were by no means -interrupted, and that Mrs. Trevanion’s plan was still to go abroad, his -disappointment and vexation were not to be controlled. - -“What should you go abroad for?” he said. “We’re far better in London. -There is everything in London that can be desired. It is the right place -for a young fellow like me. I have never had any pleasure in my life, -nor the means of seeing anything. And here, the moment I have something -in my power, you want to rush away.” - -“There is a great deal to see on the other side of the Channel, Edmund.” - -“I dare say--among foreigners whose language one doesn’t know a word of. -And what is it, after all? Scenery, or pictures, and that sort of thing. -Whereas what I want to see is life.” - -She looked at him with a strange understanding of all that she would -have desired to ignore, knowing what he meant by some incredible pang of -inspiration, though she had neither any natural acquaintance with such a -strain of thought nor any desire to divine it. “There is life -everywhere,” she said, “and I think it will be very good for you, -Edmund. You are not very strong, and there are so many things to learn.” - -“I see. You think, as I am, that I am not much credit to you, Mrs. -Trevanion, of Highcourt. But there might be different opinions about -that.” Offence brought a flush of color to his cheek. “Miss Trevanion, -of Highcourt, was not so difficult to please,” he added, with a laugh of -vanity. “She showed no particular objections to me; but you have ruined -me there, I suppose, once for all.” - -This attack left her speechless. She could not for the moment reply, but -only looked at him with that appeal in her eyes, to which, in the -assurance not only of his egotism, but of his total unacquaintance with -what was going on in her mind, her motives and ways of thinking, he was -utterly insensible. This, however, was only the first of many arguments -on the subject which filled those painful days. When he saw that the -preparations still went on, Edmund’s disgust was great. - -“I see Jane is still going on packing,” he said. “You don’t mind, then, -that I can’t bear it? What should you drag me away for? I am quite happy -here.” - -“My dear,” she said, “you were complaining yourself that you have not -anything to do. You have no friends here.” - -“Nor anywhere,” said Edmund; “and whose fault is that?” - -“Perhaps it is my fault. But that does not alter the fact, Edmund. If I -say that I am sorry, that is little, but still it does not mend it. In -Italy everything will amuse you.” - -“Nothing will amuse me,” said the young man. “I tell you I don’t care -for scenery. What I want to see is life.” - -“In travelling,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “you often make friends, and you -see how the people of other countries live, and you learn--” - -“I don’t want to learn,” he cried abruptly. “You are always harping upon -that. It is too late to go to school at my age. If I have no education -you must put up with it, for it is your fault. And what I want is to -stay here. London is the place to learn life and everything. And if you -tell me that you couldn’t get me plenty of friends, if you chose to -exert yourself, I don’t believe you. It’s because you won’t, not because -you can’t.” - -“Edmund!” - -“Oh, don’t contradict me, for I know better. There is one thing I want -above all others, and I know you mean to go against me in that. If you -stay here quiet, you know very well they will come to town like -everybody else, for the season, and then you can introduce me. She knows -me already. The last time she saw me she colored up. She knew very well -what I was after. This has always been in my mind since the first time I -saw her with you. She is fond of you. She will be glad enough to come, -if it is even on the sly--” - -He was very quick to see when he had gone wrong, and the little cry that -came from her lips, the look that came over her face, warned him a -moment too late. He “colored up,” as he said, crimson to the eyes, and -endeavored with an uneasy laugh to account for his slip. “The expression -may be vulgar,” he said, “but everybody uses it. And that’s about what -it would come to, I suppose.” - -“You mistake me altogether, Edmund,” she said. “I will not see any one -on the sly, as you say; and especially not-- Don’t wound me by suggesting -what is impossible. If I had not known that I had no alternative, can -you suppose I should have left them at all?” - -“That’s a different matter; you were obliged to do that; but nobody -could prevent you meeting them in the streets, seeing them as they pass, -saying ‘How do you do?’ introducing a relation--” - -She rose up, and began to pace about the room in great agitation. “Don’t -say any more, don’t torture me like this,” she said. “Can you not -understand how you are tearing me to pieces? If I were to do what you -say, I should be dishonest, false both to the living and the dead. And -it would be better to be at the end of the world than to be near them in -a continual fever, watching, scheming, for a word. Oh, no! no!” she -said, wringing her hands, “do not let me be tempted beyond my strength. -Edmund, for my sake, if for no other, let us go away.” - -He looked at her with a sort of cynical observation, as she walked up -and down the room with hurried steps at first, then calming gradually. -He repeated slowly, with a half laugh, “For your sake? But I thought -everything now was to be for my sake. And it is my turn; you can’t deny -that.” - -Mrs. Trevanion gave him a piteous look. It was true that it was his -turn; and it was true that she had said all should be for him in her -changed life. He had her at an advantage; a fact which to her finer -nature seemed the strongest reason for generous treatment, but not to -his. - -“It is all very well to speak,” he continued; “but if you really mean -well by me, introduce me to Rosalind. That would be the making of me. -She is a fine girl, and she has money; and she would be just as -pleased--” - -She stopped him, after various efforts, almost by force, seizing his -arm. “There are some things,” she said, “that I cannot bear. This is one -of them. I will not have her name brought in--not even her name--” - -“Why not? What’s in her name more than another? A rose, don’t you know, -by any other name--” he said, with a forced laugh. But he was alarmed by -Mrs. Trevanion’s look, and the clutch which in her passion she had taken -of his arm. After all, his new life was dependent upon her, and it might -be expedient not to go too far. - -This interlude left her trembling and full of agitation. She did not -sleep all night, but moved about the room, in her dingy London lodging, -scarcely able to keep still. A panic had seized hold upon her. She sent -for him in the morning as soon as he had left his room, which was not -early; and even he observed the havoc made in her already worn face by -the night. She told him that she had resolved to start next day. “I did -not perceive,” she said, “all the dangers of staying, till you pointed -them out to me. If I am to be honest, if I am to keep any one’s esteem, -I must go away.” - -“I don’t see it,” he said, somewhat sullenly. “It’s all your fancy. When -a person’s in hiding, he’s safer in London than anywhere else.” - -“I am not in hiding,” she said, hastily, with a sense of mingled -irritation and despair. For what words could be used which he would -understand, which would convey to him any conception of what she meant? -They were like two people speaking different languages, incapable of -communicating to each other anything that did not lie upon the surface -of their lives. When he perceived at last how much in earnest she was, -how utterly resolved not to remain, he yielded, but without either grace -or good humor. He had not force enough in himself to resist when it came -to a distinct issue. Thus they departed together into the world -unknown--two beings absolutely bound to each other, each with no one -else in the world to turn to, and yet with no understanding of each -other, not knowing the very alphabet of each other’s thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -Thus Mrs. Trevanion went away out of reach and knowledge of everything -that belonged to her old life. She had not been very happy in that life. -The principal actor in it, her husband, had regarded her comfort less -than that of his horses or hounds. He had filled her existence with -agitations, but yet had not made life unbearable until the last fatal -complications had arisen. She had been surrounded by people who -understood her more or less, who esteemed and approved her, and she had -possessed in Rosalind the sweetest of companions, one who was in -sympathy with every thought, who understood almost before she was -conscious of thinking at all; a creature who was herself yet not -herself, capable of sharing everything and responding at every point. -And, except her husband, there was no one who regarded Madam Trevanion -with anything but respect and reverence. No one mistook the elevation of -her character. She was regarded with honor wherever she went, her -opinions prized, her judgment much considered. When a woman to whom this -position has been given suddenly descends to find herself in the sole -company of one who cares nothing for her judgment, to whom all her -opinions are antiquated or absurd, and herself one of those conventional -female types without logic or reason, which are all that some men know -of women, the confusing effect which is produced upon earth and heaven -is too wonderful for words. More than any change of events, this change -of position confuses and overwhelms the mind. Sometimes it is the dismal -result of an ill-considered marriage. Sometimes it appears in other -relationships. She was pulled rudely down from the pedestal she had -occupied so long, and rudely, suddenly, made to feel that she was no -oracle, that her words had no weight because she said them, but rather -carried with them a probability of foolishness because they were hers. -The wonder of this bewildered at first; it confused her consciousness, -and made her insecure of herself. And at last it produced the worse -effect of making everything uncertain to her. Though she had been -supposed so self-sustained and strong in character, she was too natural -a woman not to be deeply dependent upon sympathy and the support of -understanding. When these failed she tottered and found no firm footing -anywhere. Perhaps she said to herself she was really foolish, as Edmund -thought, unreasonable, slow to comprehend all character that was unlike -her own. She was no longer young; perhaps the young were wiser, had -stronger lights; perhaps her beliefs, her prejudices, were things of the -past. All this she came to think with wondering pain when the support of -general faith and sympathy was withdrawn. It made her doubtful of -everything she had done or believed, timid to speak, watching the -countenance of the young man whose attitude towards her had changed all -the world to her. This was not part of the great calamity that had -befallen her. It was something additional, another blow; to be parted -from her children, to sustain the loss of all things dear to her, was -her terrible fate, a kind of vengeance for what was past; but that her -self-respect, her confidence, should thus be taken away from her was -another distinct and severe calamity. Sometimes the result was a mental -giddiness, a quiver about her of the atmosphere and all the solid -surroundings, as though there was (but in a manner unthought of by -Berkeley) nothing really existent but only in the thoughts of those who -beheld it. Perhaps her previous experiences had led her towards this; -for such had been the scope of all her husband’s addresses to her for -many a day. But she had not been utterly alone with him, she had felt -the strong support of other people’s faith and approval holding her up -and giving her strength. Now all these accessories had failed her. Her -world consisted of one soul, which had no faith in her; and thus, turned -back upon herself, she faltered in all her moral certainties, and began -to doubt whether she had ever been right, whether she had any power to -judge, or perception, or even feeling, whether she were not perhaps in -reality the conventional woman, foolish, inconsistent, pertinacious, -which she appeared through Edmund’s eyes. - -The other strange, new sensations that Madam encountered in these years, -while her little children throve and grew under the care of Mrs. Lennox, -and Rosalind developed into the full bloom of early womanhood, were many -and various. She had thought herself very well acquainted with the -mysteries of human endurance, but it seemed to her now that at the -beginning of that new life she had known nothing of them. New depths and -heights developed every day; her own complete breaking down and the -withdrawal from her of confidence in herself being the great central -fact of all. On Edmund’s side the development too was great. He had -looked and wished for pleasure and ease and self-indulgence when he had -very little power of securing them. When by a change of fortune so -extraordinary and unexpected he actually obtained the means of -gratifying his instincts, he addressed himself to the task with a unity -of purpose which was worthy of a greater aim. He was drawn aside from -his end by no glimmer of ambition, no impulse to make something better -out of his life. His imperfect education and ignorance of what was best -in existence had perhaps something to do with this. To him, as to many a -laboring man, the power of doing no work, nor anything but what he -pleased, seemed the most supreme of gratifications. He would not give -himself the trouble to study anything, even the world, confident as only -the ignorant are in the power of money, and in that great evidence that -he had become one of the privileged classes, the fact that he did not -now need to do anything for his living. He was not absolutely bad or -cruel; he only preferred his own pleasure to anybody else’s, and was a -little contemptuous of a woman’s advice and intolerant of her rule and -impatient of her company. Perhaps her idea that she owed herself to him, -that it was paying an old debt of long-postponed duty to devote herself -to him now, to do her best for him, to give him everything in her power -that could make him happy, was a mistaken one from the beginning. She -got to believe that she was selfish in remaining with him, while still -feeling that her presence was the only possible curb upon him. How was -she to find a way of serving him best, of providing for all his wants -and wishes, of keeping him within the bounds of possibility, yet letting -him be free from the constraint of her presence? As time went on, this -problem became more and more urgent, yet by the same progress of time -her mind grew less and less clear on any point. The balance of the -comparative became more difficult to carry. There was no absolute good -within her reach, and she would not allow even to herself that there was -any absolute bad in the young man’s selfish life. It was all -comparative, as life was. But to find the point of comparative advantage -which should be best for him, where he should be free without being -abandoned, and have the power of shaping his course as he pleased -without the power of ruining himself and her--this became more and more -the engrossing subject of her thoughts. - -As for Edmund, though he indulged in many complaints and grumbles as to -having always a woman at his heels, his impatience never went the length -of emancipating himself. On the whole, his indolent nature found it most -agreeable to have everything done for him, to have no occasion for -thought. He had the power always of complaint, which gave him a kind of -supremacy without responsibility. His fixed grievance was that he was -kept out of London; his hope, varying as they went and came about the -world, that somewhere they would meet the family from which Mrs. -Trevanion had been torn, and that “on the sly,” or otherwise (though he -never repeated those unlucky words), he might find himself in a -position to approach Rosalind. In the meantime he amused himself in such -ways as were practicable, and spent a great deal of money, and got a -certain amount of pleasure out of his life. His health was not robust, -and when late hours and amusements told upon him he had the most devoted -of nurses. On the whole, upon comparison with the life of a clerk on a -small salary in a Liverpool office, his present existence was a sort of -shabby Paradise. - -About the time when Rosalind heard from Mr. Rivers of that chance -encounter which revived all her longings for her mother, and at the same -time all the horror of vague and miserable suspicion which surrounded -Mrs. Trevanion’s name, a kind of crisis had occurred in this strange, -wandering life. Edmund had fallen ill, more seriously than before, and -in the quiet of convalescence after severe suffering had felt certain -compunctions cross his mind. He had acknowledged to his tender nurse -that she was very kind to him. “If you would not nag a fellow so,” he -said, “and drive me about so that I don’t know what I am doing, I think, -now that I am used to your ways, we might get on.” - -Mrs. Trevanion did not defend herself against the charge of “nagging” or -“driving” as she might perhaps have done at an earlier period, but -accepted with almost grateful humility the condescension of this -acknowledgment. “In the meantime,” she said, “you must get well, and -then, please God, everything will be better.” - -“If you like to make it so,” he said, already half repentant of the -admission he had made. And then he added, “If you’d only give up this -fancy of yours for foreign parts. Why shouldn’t we go home? You may like -it, you speak the language, and so forth: but I detest it. If you want -to please me and make me get well, let’s go home.” - -“We have no home to go to, Edmund--” - -“Oh, that’s nonsense, you know. You don’t suppose I mean the sort of -fireside business. Nothing is so easy as to get a house in London; and -you know that is what I like best.” - -“Edmund, how could I live in a house in London?” she said. “You must -remember that a great deal has passed that is very painful. I could not -but be brought in contact with people who used to know me--” - -“Ah!” he cried, “here’s the real reason at last. I thought all this time -it was out of consideration for me, to keep me out of temptation, and -that sort of thing; but now it crops up at last. It’s for yourself, -after all. It is always an advance to know the true reason. And what -could they do to you, those people with whom you might be brought in -contact?” - -She would not perhaps have said anything about herself had he not -beguiled her by the momentary softness of his tone. And now one of those -rapid scintillations of cross light which were continually gleaming upon -her life and motives flashed over her and changed everything. To be -sure! it was selfishness, no doubt, though she had not seen it so. She -answered, faltering a little: “They could do nothing to me. Perhaps you -are right, Edmund. It may be that I have been thinking too much of -myself. But I am sure London would not be good for you. To live there -with comfort you must have something to do, or you must have--friends--” - -“Well!” he said, with a kind of defiance. - -“You have no friends, Edmund.” - -“Well,” he repeated, “whose fault is that? It is true that I have no -friends; but I could have friends and everything else if you would take -a little trouble--more than friends; I might marry and settle. You could -do everything for me in that way if you would take the trouble. That’s -what I want to do; but I suppose you would rather drag me forever about -with you than see me happy in a place of my own.” - -Mrs. Trevanion had lost her beauty. She was pale and worn as if twenty -additional years had passed over her head instead of two. But for a -moment the sudden flush that warmed and lighted up her countenance -restored to her something of her prime. “I think,” she said, “Edmund, if -you will let me for a moment believe what I am saying, that, to see you -happy and prosperous, I would gladly die. I know you will say my dying -would be little to the purpose; but the other I cannot do for you. To -marry requires a great deal that you do not think of. I don’t say love, -in the first place--” - -“You may if you please,” he said. “I’m awfully fond of-- Oh, I don’t mind -saying her name. You know who I mean. If you were good enough for her, I -don’t see why I shouldn’t be good enough for her. You have only got to -introduce me, which you can if you like, and all the rest I take in my -own hands.” - -“I was saying,” she repeated, “that love, even if love exists, is not -all. Before any girl of a certain position would be allowed to marry, -the man must satisfy her friends. His past, and his future, and the -means he has, and how he intends to live--all these things have to be -taken into account. It is not so easy as you think.” - -“That is all very well,” said Edmund; though he paused with a stare of -mounting dismay in his beautiful eyes, larger and more liquid than ever -by reason of his illness--those eyes which haunted Rosalind’s -imagination. “That is all very well: but it is not as if you were a -stranger: when they know who I am--when I have you to answer for me--” - -A flicker of self-assertion came into her eyes. “Why do you think they -should care for me or my recommendation? You do not,” she said. - -He laughed. “That’s quite different. Perhaps they know more--and I am -sure they know less--than I do. I should think you would like them to -know about me for your own sake.” - -She turned away with once more a rapid flush restoring momentary youth -to her countenance. She was so changed that it seemed to her, as she -caught a glimpse of herself, languidly moving across the room, in the -large, dim mirror opposite, that no one who belonged to her former -existence would now recognize her. And there was truth in what he said. -It would be better for her, for her own sake, that the family from whom -she was separated should know everything there was to tell. After the -first horror lest they should know, there had come a revulsion of -feeling, and she had consented in her mind that to inform them of -everything would be the best, though she still shrank from it. But even -if she had strength to make that supreme effort it could do her no good. -Nothing, they had said, no explanation, no clearing up, would ever -remove the ban under which she lay. And it would be better to go down to -her grave unjustified than to place Rosalind in danger. She looked back -upon the convalescent as he resumed fretfully the book which was for the -moment his only way of amusing himself. Illness had cleared away from -Edmund’s face all the traces of self-indulgence which she had seen -there. It was a beautiful face, full of apparent meaning and sentiment, -the eyes full of tenderness and passion--or at least what might seem so -in other lights, and to spectators less dismally enlightened than -herself. A young soul like Rosalind, full of faith and enthusiasm, might -take that face for the face of a hero, a poet. Ah! this was a cruel -thought that came to her against her will, that stabbed her like a knife -as it came. She said to herself tremulously that in other circumstances, -with other people, he might have been, might even be, all that his face -told. Only with her from the beginning everything had gone wrong--which -again, in some subtile way, according to those revenges which everything -that is evil brings with it, was her fault and not his. But Rosalind -must not be led to put her faith upon promises which were all -unfulfilled. Rosalind must not run any such risk. Whatever should -happen, she could not expose to so great a danger another woman, and -that her own child. - -But there were other means of setting the wheels of fate in motion, with -which Madame Trevanion had nothing to do. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -Towards the end of the summer, during the height of which Mrs. Lennox’s -party had returned to the Italian lakes, one of the friends she made at -Cadenabbia represented to that good woman that her rheumatism, from -which she had suffered during the winter, though perhaps not quite so -severely as she imagined, made it absolutely necessary to go through a -“cure” at Aix-les-Bains, where, as everybody knows, rheumatism is -miraculously operated upon by the waters. Aunt Sophy was very much -excited by this piece of advice. In the company which she had been -frequenting of late, at the _tables d’hôte_ and in the public -promenades, she had begun to perceive that it was scarcely respectable -for a person of a certain age not to go through a yearly “cure” at some -one or other of a number of watering-places. It indicated a state of -undignified health and robustness which was not quite nice for a lady no -longer young. There were many who went to Germany, to the different -_bads_ there, and a considerable number whose “cure” was in France, and -some even who sought unknown springs in Switzerland and Italy; but, -taken on the whole, very few indeed were the persons over fifty of -either sex who did not reckon a “cure” occupying three weeks or so of -the summer or autumn as a necessary part of the routine of life. To all -Continental people it was indispensable, and there were many Americans -who crossed the ocean for this purpose, going to Carlsbad or to -Kissingen or somewhere else with as much regularity as if they had lived -within a railway journey of the place. Only the English were careless on -so important a subject, but even among them many become convinced of the -necessity day by day. - -Mrs. Lennox, when this idea fully penetrated her mind, and she had -blushed to think how far she was behind in so essential a particular of -life, had a strong desire to go to Homburg, where all the “best people” -went, and where there was quite a little supplementary London season, -after the conclusion of the genuine article. But, unfortunately, there -was nothing the matter with her digestion. Her rheumatism was the only -thing she could bring forward as entitling her to any position at all -among the elderly ladies and gentlemen who in August were setting out -for, or returning from, their “cures.” “Oh, then, of course, it is Aix -you must go to,” her informants said; “it is a little late, perhaps, in -September--most of the best people will have gone--still, you know, the -waters are just as good, and the great heat is over. You could not do -better than Aix.” One of the ladies who thus instructed her was even -kind enough to suggest the best hotel to go to, and to proffer her own -services, as knowing all about it, to write and secure rooms for her -friend. “It is a pity you did not go three weeks ago, when all the best -people were there; but, of course, the waters are just the same,” this -benevolent person repeated. Mrs. Lennox became, after a time, very eager -on this subject. She no longer blushed when her new acquaintances talked -of their cure. She explained to new-comers, “It is a little late, but it -did not suit my arrangements before; and, of course, the waters are the -same, though the best people are gone.” Besides, it was always, she -said, on the way home, whatever might happen. - -They set off accordingly, travelling in a leisurely way, in the -beginning of September. Mrs. Lennox felt that it was expedient to go -slowly, to have something of the air of an invalid before she began her -“cure.” Up to this moment she had borne a stray twinge of pain when it -came, in her shoulder or her knee, and thought it best to say nothing -about it; but now she made a little grimace when that occurred, and -said, “Oh, my shoulder!” or complained of being stiff when she got out -of the carriage. It was only right that she should feel her ailments a -little more than usual when she began her cure. - -The hotels were beginning to empty when the English party, so helpless, -so used to comfort, so inviting to everybody that wanted to make money -out of them, appeared. They were received, it is needless to say, with -open arms, and had the best suites of rooms to choose from. Mrs. Lennox -felt herself to grow in importance from the moment she entered the -place. She felt more stiff than ever when she got out of the carriage -and was led up-stairs, the anxious landlady suggesting that there was a -chair in which she could be carried to her apartment if the stairs were -too much for her. “Oh, I think I can manage to walk up if I am not -hurried,” Aunt Sophy said. It would have been quite unkind, almost -improper, not to adopt the _rôle_ which suited the place. She went up -quite slowly, holding by the baluster, while the children, astonished, -crowded up after her, wondering what had happened. “I think I will take -your arm, Rosalind,” murmured the simple woman. She did really feel much -stiffer than usual; and then there was that pain in her shoulder. “I am -so glad I have suffered myself to be persuaded to come. I wonder Dr. -Tennant did not order me here long ago; for I really think in my present -condition I never should have been able to get home.” Even Rosalind was -much affected by this suggestion, and blamed herself for never having -discovered how lame Aunt Sophy was growing. “But it is almost your own -fault, for you never showed it,” she said. “My dear, I did not, of -course, want to make you anxious,” replied Mrs. Lennox. - -The doctor came next morning, and everything was settled about the -“cure.” He told the new-comers that there were still a good many people -in Aix, and that all the circumstances were most favorable. Mrs. Lennox -was taken to her bath in a chair the day after, and went through all the -operations which the medical man thought requisite. He spoke excellent -English--which was such a comfort. He told his patient that the air of -the place where the cure was to be effected often seemed to produce a -temporary recrudescence of the disease. Aunt Sophy was much exhilarated -by this word. She talked of this chance of a recrudescence in a soft and -subdued tone, such as became her invalid condition, and felt a most -noble increase of dignity and importance as she proceeded with her -“cure.” - -Rosalind was one of the party who took least to this unexpected delay. -She had begun to be very weary of the travelling, the monotony of the -groups of new acquaintances all so like each other, the atmosphere of -hotels, and all the vulgarities of a life in public. To the children it -did not matter much; they took their walks all the same whether they -were at the Elms or Aix-les-Bains, and had their nursery dinner at their -usual hour, whatever happened. The absorption of Mrs. Lennox in her -“cure” threw Rosalind now entirely upon the society of these little -persons. She went with them, or rather they went with her, in her -constant expeditions to the lake, which attracted her more than the -tiresome amusements of the watering-place, and thus all their little -adventures and encounters--incidents which in other circumstances might -have been overlooked--became matters of importance to her. - -It was perhaps because he was the only boy in the little feminine party, -or because he was the youngest, that Johnny was invariably the principal -personage in all these episodes of childish life. He it was whom the -ladies admired, whom strangers stopped to talk to, who was the little -hero of every small excitement. His beautiful eyes, the boyish boldness -which contrasted so strongly with little Amy’s painful shyness, and even -with his own little pale face and unassured strength, captivated the -passers-by. He was the favorite of the nursery, which was now presided -over by a nurse much more enlightened than Russell, a woman recommended -by the highest authorities, and who knew, or was supposed to know, -nothing of the family history. Rosalind had heard vaguely, without -paying much attention, of various admirers who had paid their tribute -to the attractions of her little brother, but it was not until her -curiosity was roused by the appearance of a present in the form of a -handsome and expensive mechanical toy, the qualities of which Johnny -expounded with much self-importance and in a loud voice, that she was -moved to any remark. The children were on the floor near her, full of -excitement. “Now it shall run round and round, and now it shall go -straight home,” Johnny said, while Amy watched and listened -ecstatically, a little maiden of few words, whose chief qualities were a -great power of admiration and a still greater of love. - -Rosalind was seated musing by the window, a little tired, wondering when -the “cure” would be over, and if Aunt Sophy would then recover the use -of her limbs again, and consent to go home. Mrs. Lennox was always good -and kind, and the children were very dear to their mother-sister; but -now and then, not always, perhaps not often, there comes to a young -woman like Rosalind a longing for companionship such as neither aunts or -children can give. Neither the children nor her aunt shared her -thoughts; they understood her very imperfectly on most occasions; they -had love to give her, but not a great deal more. She sighed, as people -do when there is something wanting to them, then turned upon herself -with a kind of rage and asked, “What did she want?” as girls will do on -whom it has been impressed that this wish for companionship is a thing -that is wrong, perhaps unmaidenly. But, after all, there was no harm in -it. Oh, that Uncle John were here! she said to herself. Even Roland -Hamerton would have been something. He could have tried at least his -very best to think as she did. Oh, that--! She did not put any name to -this aspiration. She was not very sure who--which--it meant, and then -she breathed a still deeper sigh, and tears came to her eyes. Oh! for -_her_ of whom nobody knew where she was wandering or in what -circumstances she might be. She heard the children’s voices vaguely -through her thinking, and by and by a word caught her ear. - -“The lady said I was to do it like this. She did it for me on the table -out in the garden. It nearly felled down,” said Johnny, “and then it -would have broken itself, so she put it on the ground and went down on -her knees.” - -“Oh, what did she go on her knees for, like saying her prayers, Johnny?” - -“Nothin’ of the sort. She just went down like this and caught hold of -me. I expose,” said Johnny, whose language was not always correct, “she -is stiff, like Aunt Sophy; for I was far more stronger and kept her up.” - -“Who is this that he is talking of, Amy?” Rosalind said. - -The little girl gave her a look which had some meaning in it, Rosalind -could not tell what, and, giving Johnny a little push with her arm after -the easy method of childhood, said, “Tell her,” turning away to examine -the toy. - -“It was the lady,” Johnny said, turning slightly round as on a pivot, -and lifting to her those great eyes which Aunt Sophy had said were -like--and which always went straight to Rosalind’s heart. - -“What lady, dear? and where did you get that beautiful toy?” Rosalind -followed the description the child had been giving, and came and knelt -on the carpet beside him. “How pretty it is! Did Aunt Sophy give you -that?” - -“It was the lady,” Johnny repeated. - -“What lady? Was it a stranger, Amy, that gave him such a beautiful toy?” - -“I think, Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse, coming to the rescue, “it is -some lady that has lost her little boy, and that he must have been about -Master Johnny’s age. I said it was too much, and that you would not like -him to take it; but she said the ladies would never mind if they knew it -was for the sake of another--that she had lost.” - -“Poor lady!” Rosalind said; the tears came to her eyes in sudden -sympathy; “that must be so sad, to lose a child.” - -“It is the greatest sorrow in this world, to be only sorrow,” the woman -said. - -“Only sorrow! and what can be worse than that?” said innocent Rosalind. -“Is the lady very sad, Johnny? I hope you were good and thanked her for -it. Perhaps if I were with him some day she would speak to me.” - -“She doesn’t want nobody but me,” said Johnny. “Oh, look! doesn’t it go. -It couldn’t go on the ground because of the stones. Amy, Amy, get out of -the way, it will run you over. And now it’s going home to take William a -message. I whispered in it, so it knows what to say.” - -“But I want to hear about the lady, Johnny.” - -“Oh, look, look! it’s falled on the carpet; it don’t like the carpet any -more than the stones. I expose it’s on the floor it will go best, or on -the grass. Nurse, come along, let’s go out and try it on the grass.” - -“Johnny, stop! I want to know more about this lady, dear.” - -“Oh, there is nothing about her,” cried the little boy, rushing after -his toy. Sophy, who had been practising, got up from the piano and came -forward to volunteer information. - -“She’s an old fright,” said Sophy. “I’ve seen her back--dressed all in -mourning, with a thick veil on. She never took any notice of us others -that have more sense than Johnny. I could have talked to her, but he -can’t talk to anybody, he is so little and so silly. All he can say is -only stories he makes up; you think that is clever, but I don’t think it -is clever. If I were his--aunt,” said Sophy, with a momentary -hesitation, “I would whip him. For all that is lies, don’t you know? You -would say it was lies if I said it, but you think it’s poetry because of -Johnny. Poetry is lies, Rosalind, yes, and novels too. They’re not true, -so what can they be but lies? that’s why I don’t care to read them. No, -I never read them, I like what’s true.” - -Rosalind caught her book instinctively, which was all she had left. “We -did not ask you for your opinion about poetry, Sophy; but if this lady -is so kind to Johnny I should like to go and thank her. Next time you -see her say that Johnny’s sister would like to thank her. If she has -lost her little boy we ought to be very sorry for her,” Rosalind said. - -Sophy looked at her with an unmoved countenance. “I think people are a -great deal better off that are not bothered with children,” she said; “I -should send the little ones home, and then we could do what we liked, -and stay as long as we liked,” quoth the little woman of the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -Johnny’s little social successes were so frequent that the memory of the -poor lady who had lost her child at his age soon died away, and the toy -got broken and went the way of all toys. Their life was spent in a very -simple round of occupations. Rosalind, whose powers as an artist were -not beyond the gentlest level of amateur art, took to sketching, as a -means of giving some interest to her idle hours, and it became one of -the habits of the family that Aunt Sophy, when well enough to go out for -her usual afternoon drive, should deposit her niece and the children on -the bank of the lake, the spot which Rosalind had chosen as the subject -of a sketch. The hills opposite shone in the afternoon sun with a gray -haze of heat softening all their outlines; the water glowed and sparkled -in all its various tones of blue, here and there specked by a slowly -progressing boat, carrying visitors across to the mock antiquity of -Hautecombe. - -After the jingle and roll of Mrs. Lennox’s carriage had passed away, the -silence of the summer heat so stilled the landscape that the distant -clank of the oars on the water produced the highest effect. It was very -warm, yet there was something in the haze that spoke of autumn, and a -cool but capricious little breeze came now and then from the water. -Rosalind, sitting in the shade, with her sketching-block upon her knee, -felt that soft indolence steal over her, that perfect physical content -and harmony with everything, which takes all impulse from the mind and -makes the sweetness of doing nothing a property of the very atmosphere. -Her sketch was very unsatisfactory, for one thing: the subject was much -too great for her simple powers. She knew just enough to know that it -was bad, but not how to do what she wished, to carry out her own ideal. -To make out the open secret before her, and perceive how it was that -Nature formed those shadows and poured down that light, was possible to -her mind but not to her hand, which had not the cunning necessary for -the task; but she was clever enough to see her incapacity, which is more -than can be said of most amateurs. Her hands had dropped by her side, -and her sketch upon her lap. After all, who could hope to put upon paper -those dazzling lights, and the differing tones of air and distance, the -shadows that flitted over the mountainsides, the subdued radiance of the -sky? Perhaps a great artist, Turner or his chosen rival, but not an -untrained girl, whose gifts were only for the drawing-room. Rosalind was -not moved by any passion of regret on account of her failure. She was -content to sit still and vaguely contemplate the beautiful scene, which -was half within her and half without. The “inward eye which is the bliss -of solitude” filled out the outline of the picture for her as she sat, -not thinking, a part of the silent rapture of the scene. The children -were playing near her, and their voices, softened in the warm air, made -part of the beatitude of the moment--that, and the plash of the water on -the shore, and the distant sound of the oars, and the breeze that blew -in her face. It was one of those exquisite instants, without any actual -cause of happiness in them, when we are happy without knowing why. Such -periods come back to the mind as the great events which are called -joyful never do--for with events, however joyful, there come -agitations, excitements--whereas pure happiness is serene, and all the -sweeter for being without any cause. - -Thus Rosalind sat--notwithstanding many things in her life which were -far from perfect--in perfect calm and pleasure. The nurse, seated lower -down upon the beach, was busy with a piece of work, crochet or some -other of those useless handiworks which are a refreshment to those who -are compelled to be useful for the greater portion of their lives. The -children were still nearer to the edge of the water, playing with a -little pleasure-boat which was moored within the soft plash of the lake. -It was not a substantial craft, like the boats native to the place, -which are meant to convey passengers and do serious work, but was a -little, gayly painted, pleasure skiff, belonging to an Englishman in the -neighborhood, neither safe nor solid--one of the cockleshells that a -wrong balance upsets in a moment. It was to all appearance safely -attached to something on the land, and suggested no idea of danger -either to the elder sister seated above or to the nurse on the beach. - -Amy and Johnny had exhausted their imagination in a hundred dramatic -plays; they had “pretended” to be kings and queens; to be a lady -receiving visitors and a gentleman making a morning call; to be a -clergyman preaching to a highly critical and unsatisfactory audience, -which would neither stay quiet nor keep still; to be a procession -chanting funeral hymns; even coming down sadly from that level of high -art to keep a shop, selling pebbles and sand for tea and sugar. Such -delights, however, are but transitory; the children, after a while, -exhausted every device they could think of; and then they got into the -boat, which it was very easy to do. The next thing, as was natural, was -to “pretend” to push off and row. And, alas! the very first of these -attempts was too successful. The boat had been attached, as it appeared, -merely to a small iron rod thrust into the sand, and Johnny, being -vigorous and pulling with all his little might--with so much might that -he tumbled into the bottom of the boat head over heels in the revulsion -of the effort--the hold gave way. Both nurse and sister sat tranquilly, -fearing no evil, while this tremendous event took place, and it was not -till the shifting of some bright lines in the foreground caught -Rosalind’s dreaming eye that the possibility of any accident occurred to -her. She sprang to her feet then, with a loud cry which startled the -nurse and a group of children playing farther on, on the beach, but no -one who could be of any real assistance. The little bright vessel was -afloat and already bearing away upon the shining water. In a minute it -was out of reach of anything the women could do. There was not a boat or -a man within sight; the only hope was in the breeze which directed the -frail little skiff to a small projecting point farther on, to which, as -soon as her senses came back to her, Rosalind rushed, with what -intention she scarcely knew, to plunge into the water though she could -not swim, to do something, if it should only be to drown along with -them. The danger that the boat might float out into the lake was not -all; for any frightened movement, even an attempt to help themselves on -the part of the children, might upset the frail craft in a moment, and -end their voyage forever. - -She flew over the broken ground, stumbling in her hurry and agitation, -doing her best to stifle the cries that burst from her, lest she should -frighten the little voyagers. For the moment they were quite still, -surprise and alarm and a temporary confusion as to what to do having -quieted their usual restlessness. Amy’s little face, with a smile on it, -gradually growing fixed as fear crept over her which she would not -betray, and Johnny’s back as he settled himself on the rowing seat, with -his arms just beginning to move towards the oars which Rosalind felt -would be instant destruction did he get hold of them, stood out in her -eyes as if against a background of flame. It was only the background of -the water, all soft and glowing, with scarcely a ripple upon it, safe, -so peaceful, and yet death. There could not have been a prettier -picture. The boat was reflected in every tint, the children’s dresses, -its own lines of white and crimson, the foolish little flag of the same -colors that fluttered at the bow--all prettiness, gayety, a picture that -would have delighted a child, softly floating, double, boat and shadow. -But never was any scene of prettiness looked at with such despair. “Keep -still, keep still,” Rosalind cried, half afraid even to say so much, as -she flew along, her brain all one throb. If but the gentle breeze, the -current so slight as to be scarcely visible, would drift them to the -point! if only her feet would carry her there in time! Her sight seemed -to fail her, and yet for years after it was like a picture ineffaceably -printed upon her eyes. - -She was rushing into the water in despair, with her hands stretched out, -but, alas! seeing too clearly that the boat was still out of her reach, -and restraining with pain the cry of anguish which would have startled -the children, when she felt herself suddenly put aside and a coat, -thrown off by some one in rapid motion, fell at her feet. Rosalind did -not lose her senses, which were all strung to the last degree of vivid -force and capability; but she knew nothing, did not think, was conscious -neither of her own existence nor of how this came about, of nothing but -the sight before her eyes. She stood among the reeds, her feet in the -water, trying to smile to the children, to Amy, upon whom terror was -growing, and to keep her own cries from utterance. The plunge of the -new-comer in the water startled Johnny. He had got hold of the oar, and -in the act of flinging it upon the water with the clap which used to -delight him on the lake at home, turned sharply round to see what this -new sound meant. Then the light vanished from Rosalind’s eyes. She -uttered one cry, which seemed to ring from one end of the lake to the -other, and startled the rowers far away on the other side. Then -gradually sight came back to her. Had it all turned into death and -destruction, that shining water, with its soft reflections, the pretty -outline, the floating colors? She heard a sound of voices, the tones of -the children, and then the scene became visible again, as if a black -shadow had been removed. There was the boat, still floating double, -Amy’s face full of smiles, Johnny’s voice raised high--“Oh, _I_ could -have doned it!”--a man’s head above the level of the water, a hand upon -the side of the boat. Then some one called to her, “No harm done; I will -take them back to the beach.” The throbbing went out of Rosalind’s brain -and went lower down, till her limbs shook under her, and how to get -through the reeds she could not tell. She lifted the coat instinctively -and struggled along, taking, it seemed to her, half an hour to retrace -the steps which she had made in two minutes in the access of terror -which had left her so weak. The nurse, who had fallen helpless on the -beach, covering her eyes with her hands not to see the catastrophe, had -recovered and got the children in her arms before Rosalind reached them. -They were quite at their ease, and skipped about on the shingle, when -lifted from the boat, with an air of triumph. “I could have doned it if -you had left me alone,” said Johnny, careless of the mingled caresses -and reproaches that fell upon him in a torrent--the “Oh, children, -you’ve almost killed me!” of nurse, and the passionate clasp with which -Rosalind seized upon them. “We were floating beautiful,” said little -Amy, oblivious of her terrors; and they began to descant both together -upon the delights of their “sail.” “Oh, it is far nicer than those big -boats!” “And if he had let me get the oars out I’d have doned it -myself,” cried Johnny. The group of children which had been disturbed by -the accident stood round, gaping open-mouthed in admiration, and the -loud sound of hurrying oars from a boat rushing across the lake to the -rescue added to the excitement of the little hero and heroine. -Rosalind’s dress was torn with her rush through the reeds, her shoes -wet, her whole frame trembling; while nurse had got her tidy bonnet awry -and her hair out of order. But the small adventurers had suffered no -harm or strain of any kind. They were jaunty in their perfect success -and triumph. - -“I thought it safest to bring them round to this bit of beach, where -they could be landed without any difficulty. Oh, pray don’t say anything -about it. It was little more than wading, the water is not deep. And I -am amply--Miss Trevanion? I am shocked to see you carrying my coat!” - -Rosalind turned to the dripping figure by her side with a cry of -astonishment. She had been far too much agitated even to make any -question in her mind who it was. Now she raised her eyes to meet--what? -the eyes that were like Johnny’s, the dark, wistful, appealing look -which had come back to her mind so often. He stood there with the water -running from him, in the glow of exertion, his face thinner and less -boyish, but his look the same as when he had come to her help on the -country road, and by the little lake at Highcourt. It flashed through -Rosalind’s mind that he had always come to her help. She uttered the -“Oh!” which is English for every sudden wonder, not knowing what to say. - -“I hope,” he said, “that you may perhaps remember I once saw you at -Highcourt in the old days, in a little difficulty with a boat. This was -scarcely more than that.” - -“I recollect,” she said, her breath coming fast; “you were very -kind--and now-- Oh, this is a great deal more; I owe you--their lives.” - -“Pray don’t say so. It was nothing--any one would have done it, even if -there had been a great deal more to do, but there was nothing; it was -little more than wading.” Then he took his coat from her hand, which she -had been holding all the time. “It is far more--it is too much that you -should have carried my coat, Miss Trevanion. It is more than a reward.” - -She had thought of the face so often, the eyes fixed upon her, and had -forgotten what doubts had visited her mind when she saw him before. Now, -when she met the gaze of those eyes again, all her doubts came back. -There was a faint internal struggle, even while she remembered that he -had saved the lives of the children. “I know,” she said, recollecting -herself, “that we have met before, and that I had other things to thank -you for, though nothing like this. But you must forgive me, for I don’t -know your name.” - -“My name is Everard,” he said, with a little hesitation and a quick -flush of color. His face, which had always been refined in feature, had -a delicacy that looked like ill-health, and as he pulled on his coat -over his wet clothes he shivered slightly. Was it because he felt the -chill, or only to call forth the sudden anxiety which appeared in -Rosalind’s face? “Oh,” he said, “it was momentary. I shall take no -harm.” - -“What can we do?” cried Rosalind, with alarm. “If it should make you -ill! And you are here perhaps for the baths? and yet have plunged in -without thought. What can we do? There is no carriage nor anything to be -got. Oh, Mr. Everard! take pity upon me and hasten home.” - -“I will walk with you if you will let me.” - -“But we cannot go quick, the children are not able; and what if you -catch cold! My aunt would never forgive me if I let you wait.” - -“There could be nothing improper,” he said hastily, “with the nurse and -the children.” - -Rosalind felt the pain of this mistaken speech prick her like a -pin-point. To think in your innermost consciousness that a man is “not a -gentleman” is worse than anything else that can be said of him in -English speech. She hesitated and was angry with herself, but yet her -color rose high. “What I mean,” she said, with an indescribable, -delicate pride, “is that you will take cold--you understand me, -surely--you will take cold after being in the water. I beg you to go on -without waiting, for the children cannot walk quickly.” - -“And you?” he said; still he did not seem to understand, but looked at -her with a sort of delighted persuasion that she was avoiding the walk -with him coyly, with that feminine withdrawal which leads a suitor on. -“You are just as wet as I am. Could not we two push on and leave the -children to follow?” - -Rosalind gave him a look which was full of almost despairing wonder. The -mind and the words conveyed so different an impression from that made by -the refined features and harmonious face. “Oh, please go away,” she -said, “I am in misery to see you standing there so wet. My aunt will -send to you to thank you. Oh, please go away! If you catch cold we will -never forgive ourselves,” Rosalind cried, with an earnestness that -brought tears to her eyes. - -“Miss Trevanion, that you should care--” - -Rosalind, in her heat and eagerness, made an imperious gesture, stamping -her foot on the sand in passionate impatience. “Go, go!” she cried. “We -owe you the children’s lives, and we shall not forget it--but go!” - -He hesitated. He did not believe nor understand her! He looked in her -eyes wistfully, yet with a sort of smile, to know how much of it was -true. Could any one who was a gentleman have so failed to apprehend her -meaning? Yet it did gleam on him at length, and he obeyed her, though -reluctantly, turning back half a dozen times in the first hundred yards -to see if she were coming. At last a turn in the road hid him from her -troubled eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -When the party arrived at the hotel and Aunt Sophy was informed of what -had happened, her excitement was great. The children were caressed and -scolded in a breath. After a while, however, the enormity of their -behavior was dwelt upon by all their guardians together. - -“I was saying, ma’am, that I couldn’t never take Miss Amy and Master -Johnny near to that lake again. Oh, I couldn’t! The hotel garden, I -couldn’t go farther, not with any peace of mind.” - -“You hear what nurse says, children,” said Aunt Sophy; “she is quite -right. It would be impossible for me to allow you to go out again unless -you made me a promise, oh, a faithful promise.” - -Amy was tired with the long walk after all the excitement; and she was -always an impressionable little thing. She began to cry and protest that -she never meant any harm, that the boat was so pretty, and that she was -sure it was fastened and could not get away. But Johnny held his ground. -“I could have doned it myself,” he said; “I know how to row. Nobody -wasn’t wanted--if that fellow had let us alone.” - -“Where is the gentleman, Rosalind?” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Oh, how could -you be so ungrateful as to let him go without asking where he was to be -found? To think he should have saved those precious children and not to -know where to find him to thank him! Oh, children, only think, if you -had been brought home all cold and stiff, and laid out there never to -give any more trouble, never to go home again, never to speak to your -poor, distracted auntie, or to poor Rosalind, or to-- Oh, my darlings! -What should I have done if you had been brought home to me like that? It -would have killed me. I should never more have held up my head again.” - -At this terrible prospect, and at the sight of Aunt Sophy’s tears, Amy -flung her arms as far as they would go round that portly figure, and hid -her sobs upon her aunt’s bosom. Johnny began to yield; he grew pale, and -his big eyes veiled themselves with a film of tears. To think of lying -there cold and stiff, as Aunt Sophy said, daunted the little hero. “I -could have doned it,” he said, but faltered, and his mouth began to -quiver. - -“And Uncle John,” cried Mrs. Lennox, “and Rex! what would you have said -never, never to see them again?” - -Johnny, in his own mind, piled up the agony still higher--and the -rabbits, and the pigeons, and his own pet guinea-pig, and his pony! He -flung himself into Aunt Sophy’s lap, which was so large, and so soft, -and so secure. - -This scene moved Rosalind both to tears and laughter; for it was a -little pathetic as well as funny, and the girl was overstrained. She -would have liked to fling herself, too, into arms of love like Aunt -Sophy’s, which were full--arms as loving, but more strong. The children -did not want their mother, but Rosalind did. Her mind was moved by -sentiments more complex than Johnny’s emotions, but she had no one to -have recourse to. The afternoon brightness had faded, and the gray of -twilight filled the large room, making everything indistinct. At this -crisis the door opened and somebody was ushered into the room, some one -who came forward with a hesitating, yet eager, step. “I hope I may be -permitted, though I am without introduction, to ask if the children have -taken any harm,” he said. - -“It is Mr. Everard, Aunt Sophy.” Rosalind retired to the background, her -heart beating loudly. She wanted to look on, to see what appearance he -presented to a spectator, to know how he would speak, what he would say. - -“Oh!” cried Mrs. Lennox, standing up with a child in each arm, “it is -the gentleman who saved my darlings--it is your deliverer, children. Oh, -sir, what can I say to you; how can I even thank you? You have saved my -life too, for I should never have survived if anything had happened to -them.” - -He stood against the light of one of the windows, unconscious of the -eager criticism with which he was being watched. Perhaps the bow he made -was a little elaborate, but his voice was soft and refined. “I am very -glad if I have been of any service,” he said. - -“Oh, service! it is far, far beyond that. I hope Rosalind said something -to you; I hope she told you how precious they were, and that we could -never, never forget.” - -“There is nothing to thank me for, indeed. It was more a joke than -anything else; the little things were in no danger so long as they sat -still. I was scarcely out of my depth, not much more than wading all the -time.” - -“Aunt Sophy, that is what I told you,” said Johnny, withdrawing his head -from under her arm. “I could have doned it myself.” - -“Oh, hush, Johnny! Whatever way it was done, what does that matter? Here -they are, and they might have been at the bottom of the lake. And you -risked your own life or your health, which comes to the same thing! Pray -sit down, Mr. Everard. If you are here,” Aunt Sophy went on, loosing her -arms from the children and sitting down with the full purpose of -enjoying a talk, “as I am, for the waters, to get drenched and to walk -home in your wet clothes must have been madness--that is, if you are -here for your health.” - -“I am here for the baths, but a trifle like that could harm no one.” - -“Oh, I trust not--oh, I anxiously trust not! It makes my heart stand -still even to think of it. Are you getting any benefit? It is for -rheumatism, I suppose? And what form does yours take? One sufferer is -interested in another,” Mrs. Lennox said. - -He seemed to wince a little, and threw a glance behind into the dimness -to look for Rosalind. To confess to rheumatism is not interesting. He -said at last, with a faint laugh, “I had rheumatic fever some years ago. -My heart is supposed to be affected, that is all; the water couldn’t -hurt that organ; indeed I think it did good.” - -Rosalind, in the background, knew that this was meant for her; but her -criticism was disarmed by a touch of humorous sympathy for the poor -young fellow, who had expected, no doubt, to appear in the character of -a hero, and was thus received as a fellow-sufferer in rheumatism. But -Mrs. Lennox naturally saw nothing ludicrous in the situation. “Mine,” -she said, “is in the joints. I get so stiff, and really to rise up after -I have been sitting down for any time is quite an operation. I suppose -you don’t feel anything of that sort? To be sure, you are so much -younger--but sufferers have a fellow-feeling. And when did you begin -your baths? and how many do you mean to take? and do you think they are -doing you any good? It is more than I can say just at present, but they -tell me that it often happens so, and that it is afterwards that one -feels the good result.” - -“I know scarcely any one here,” said the young man, “so I have not been -able to compare notes; but I am not ill, only taking the baths to please -a--relation, who, perhaps,” he said with a little laugh, “takes more -interest in me than I deserve.” - -“Oh, I am sure not that!” said Aunt Sophy, with enthusiasm. “But, -indeed, it is very nice of you to pay so much attention to your -relation’s wishes. You will never repent putting yourself to trouble for -her peace of mind, and I am sure I sympathize with her very much in the -anxiety she must be feeling. When the heart is affected it is always -serious. I hope, Mr. ----” - -“Everard,” he said with a bow, once more just a little, as the critic -behind him felt, too elaborate for the occasion. - -“I beg your pardon. Rosalind did tell me; but I was so much agitated, -almost too much to pay any attention. I hope, Mr. Everard, that you are -careful to keep yourself from all agitation. I can’t think the shock of -plunging into the lake could be good for you. Oh, I feel quite sure it -couldn’t be good. I hope you will feel no ill results afterwards. But -excitement of any sort, or agitation, that is the worst thing for the -heart. I hope, for your poor dear relation’s sake, who must be so -anxious, poor lady, that you will take every care.” - -He gave a glance behind Mrs. Lennox to the shadow which stood between -him and the window. “That depends,” he said, “rather on other people -than on myself. You may be sure I should prefer to be happy and at ease -if it were in my power.” - -“Ah, well!” said Aunt Sophy, “that is very true. Of course our happiness -depends very much upon other people. And you have done a great deal for -mine, Mr. Everard. It would not have done me much good to have people -telling me to be cheerful if my poor little darlings had been at the -bottom of the lake.” Here Aunt Sophy stopped and cried a little, then -went on. “You are not, I think, living at our hotel, but I hope you will -stay and dine with us. Oh, yes, I cannot take any refusal. We may have -made your acquaintance informally, but few people can have so good a -reason for wishing to know you. This is my niece, Miss Trevanion, Mr. -Everard; the little children you saved are my brother’s children--the -late Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt.” - -Rosalind listened with her heart beating high. Was it possible that he -would receive the introduction as if he had known nothing of her before? -He rose and turned towards her, made once more that slightly stiff, too -elaborate bow, and was silent. No, worse than that, began to say -something about being happy to make--acquaintance. - -“Aunt Sophy,” said Rosalind, stepping forward, “you are under a mistake. -Mr. Everard knows us well enough. I met him before we left Highcourt.” -And then she, too, paused, feeling with sudden embarrassment that there -was a certain difficulty in explaining their meetings, a difficulty of -which she had not thought. It was he now who had the advantage which she -had felt to lie with herself. - -“It is curious how things repeat themselves,” he said. “I had once the -pleasure of recovering a boat that had floated away from Miss Trevanion -on the pond at Highcourt, but I could not have ventured to claim -acquaintance on so small an argument as that.” - -Rosalind was silenced--her mind began to grow confused. It was not true -that this was all, and yet it was not false. She said nothing; if it -were wrong, she made herself an accomplice in the wrong; and Aunt -Sophy’s exclamations soon put an end to the incident. - -“So you had met before!” she cried. “So you know Highcourt! Oh, what a -very small world this is!--everybody says so, but it is only now and -then that one is sensible. But you must tell us all about it at dinner. -We dine at the _table d’hôte_, if you don’t mind. It is more amusing, -and I don’t like to shut up Rosalind with only an old lady like me for -her company. You like it too? Oh, well, that is quite nice. Will you -excuse us now, Mr. Everard, while we prepare for dinner? for that is the -dressing-bell just ringing, and they allow one so little time. Give me -your hand, dear, to help me up. You see I am quite crippled,” Mrs. -Lennox said, complacently, forgetting how nimbly she had sprung from her -chair with a child under each arm to greet their deliverer. She limped a -little as she went out of the room on Rosalind’s arm. She was quite sure -that her rheumatism made her limp; but sometimes she forgot that she had -rheumatism, which is a thing that will happen in such cases now and -then. - -The room was still dark. It was not Mrs. Lennox’s custom to have it -lighted before dinner, and when the door closed upon the ladies the -young man was left alone. His thoughts were full of triumph and -satisfaction, not unmingled with praise. He had attained by the chance -of a moment what he had set his heart upon, he said to himself; for -years he had haunted Highcourt for this end; he had been kept cruelly -and unnaturally (he thought) from realizing it. Those who might have -helped him, without any harm to themselves, had refused and resisted his -desire, and compelled him to relinquish it. And now in a moment he had -attained what he had so desired. Introduced under the most flattering -circumstances, with every prepossession in his favor, having had it in -his power to lay under the deepest obligation the family, the guardians -as well as the girl who, he said to himself, was the only girl he had -ever loved. Did he love Rosalind? He thought so, as Mrs. Lennox thought -she had rheumatism. Both were serious enough--and perhaps this young -stranger was not clearly aware how much it was he saw in Rosalind -besides herself. He saw in her a great deal that did not meet the -outward eye, though he also saw the share of beauty she possessed, -magnified by his small acquaintance with women of her kind. He saw her -sweet and fair and desirable in every way, as the truest lover might -have done. And there were other advantages which such a lover as Roland -Hamerton would have scorned to take into consideration, which -Rivers--not able at his more serious age to put them entirely out of his -mind--yet turned from instinctively as if it were doing her a wrong to -remember them, but which this young man realized vividly and reminded -himself of with rising exhilaration. With such a wife what might he not -do? Blot out everything that was against him, attain everything he had -ever dreamed of, secure happiness, advancement, wealth. He moved from -window to window of the dim room, waiting for the ladies, in a state of -exaltation indescribable. He had been raised at once from earth to -heaven. There was not a circumstance that was not in his favor. He was -received by them as an intimate, he was to be their escort, to be -introduced by them, to form one of their party; and Rosalind! Rosalind! -she was the only girl whom he had ever loved. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -He was placed between the ladies at the _table d’hôte_. Mrs. Lennox, on -her side, told the story of what had happened to the lady on her other -side, and Rosalind was appealed to by her left-hand neighbor to know -what was the truth of the rumor which had begun to float about the -little community. It was reported all down the table, so far, at least, -as the English group extended, “That is the gentleman next to Mrs. -Lennox--the children were drowning, and he plunged in and saved both.” -“What carelessness to let them go so near the water! It is easy to see, -poor things, that they have no mother.” “And did he save them both? Of -course, they must both be safe or Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion would -not have appeared at the _table d’hôte_.” Such remarks as these, -interspersed with questions, “Who is the young fellow?--where has he -sprung from? I never saw him before,” buzzed all about as dinner went -on. Mr. Everard was presented by Mrs. Lennox, in her gratitude, to the -lady next to her, who was rather a great lady, and put up her glass to -look at him. He was introduced to the gentleman on Rosalind’s other hand -by that gentleman’s request. Thus he made his appearance in society at -Aix with greatest _éclat_. When they rose from the table he followed -Rosalind out of doors into the soft autumnal night. The little veranda -and the garden walks under the trees were full of people, under cover of -whose noisy conversation there was abundant opportunity for a more -interesting _tête-à-tête_. “You are too kind,” he said, “in telling this -little story. Indeed, there was nothing to make any commotion about. You -could almost have done it, without any help from me.” - -“No,” she said. “I could not have done it; I should have tried and -perhaps been drowned, too. But it is not I who have talked, it is Aunt -Sophy. She is very grateful to you.” - -“She has no occasion,” he said. “Whatever I could do for you, Miss -Trevanion--” and then he stopped, somewhat breathlessly. “It was -curious, was it not? that the boat on the pond should have been so much -the same thing, though everything else was so different. And that is -years ago.” - -“Nearly two years.” - -“Then you remember?” he said, in a tone of delighted surprise. - -“I have much occasion to remember. It was at a very sad moment. I -remember everything that happened.” - -“To be sure,” said the young man. “No, I did not forget. It was only -that in the pleasure of seeing you everything else went out of my mind. -But I have never forgotten, Miss Trevanion, all your anxiety. I saw you, -you may remember, the day you were leaving home.” - -Rosalind raised her eyes to him with a look of pain. “It is not a happy -recollection,” she said. - -“Oh, Miss Rosalind. I hope you will forgive me for recalling to you what -is so painful.” - -“The sight of you recalls it,” she said; “it is not your fault, Mr. -Everard, you had relations near Highcourt.” - -“Only one, but nobody now--nobody. It was a sort of chance that took me -there at all. I was in a little trouble, and then I left suddenly, as it -happened, the same day as you did, Miss Trevanion. How well I remember -it all! You were carrying the same little boy who was in the boat -to-day--was it the same?--and you would not let me help you. I almost -think if you had seen it was me you would not have allowed me to help -you to-day.” - -“If I had seen it was--” Rosalind paused with troubled surprise. -Sometimes his fine voice and soft tones lulled her doubts altogether, -but, again, a sudden touch brought them all back. He was very quick, -however, to observe the changes in her, and changed with them with a -curious mixture of sympathy and servility. - -“Circumstances have carried me far away since then,” he said; “but I -have always longed to know, to hear, something. If I could tell you the -questions I have asked myself as to what might be going on; and how many -times I have tried to get to England to find out!” - -“We have never returned to Highcourt,” she said, confused by his efforts -to bring back those former meetings, and not knowing how to reply. “I -think we shall not till my brother comes of age. Yes, my little brother -was the same. He is very much excited about what happened to-day; -neither of them understood it at first, but now they begin to perceive -that it is a wonderful adventure. I hope the wetting will do you no -harm.” - -“Please,” he said in a petulant tone, “if you do not want to vex me, say -no more of that. I am not such a weak creature; indeed, there is nothing -the matter with me, except in imagination.” - -“I think,” said Rosalind, with a little involuntary laugh, “that the -baths of Aix are good for the imagination. It grows by what it feeds on; -though rheumatism does not seem to be an imaginative sort of malady.” - -“You forget,” he cried, almost with resentment; “the danger of it is -that it affects the heart, which is not a thing to laugh at.” - -“Oh, forgive me!” Rosalind cried. “I should not have spoken so lightly. -It was because you were so determined that nothing ailed you. And I hope -you are right. The lake was so beautiful to-day. It did not look as if -it could do harm.” - -“You go there often? I saw you had been painting.” - -“Making a very little, very bad, sketch, that was all. Mr. Everard, I -think I must go in. My aunt will want me.” - -“May I come, too? How kind she is! I feared that being without -introduction, knowing nobody-- But Mrs. Lennox has been most generous, -receiving me without a question--and you, Miss Trevanion.” - -“Did you expect me to stop you from saving the children till I had asked -who you were?” cried Rosalind, endeavoring to elude the seriousness with -which he always returned to the original subject. “It is a pretty manner -of introduction to do us the greatest service, the greatest kindness.” - -“But it was nothing. I can assure you it was nothing,” he said. He liked -to be able to make this protestation. It was a sort of renewing of his -claim upon them. To have a right, the very strongest right, to their -gratitude, and yet to declare it was nothing--that was very pleasant to -the young man. And in a way it was true. He would have done anything -that it did not hurt him very much to do for Rosalind, even for her aunt -and her little brothers and sisters, but to feel that he was entitled to -their thanks and yet waived them was delightful to him. It was a -statement over and over again of his right to be with them. He -accompanied Rosalind to the room in which Aunt Sophy had established -herself, with mingled confidence and timidity, ingratiating himself by -every means that was possible, though he did not talk very much. -Indeed, he was not great in conversation at any time, and now he was so -anxious to please that he was nervous and doubtful what to say. - -Mrs. Lennox received the young people with real pleasure. She liked, as -has been said in a previous part of this history, to have a young man -about, in general attendance, ready to go upon her errands and make -himself agreeable. It added to the ease and the gayety of life to have a -lover upon hand, one who was not too far gone, who still had eyes for -the other members of the party, and a serious intention of making -himself generally pleasant. She had never concealed her opinion that an -attendant of this description was an advantage. And Mrs. Lennox was -imprudent to the bottom of her heart. She had plenty of wise maxims in -store as to the necessity of keeping ineligible persons at a distance, -but it did not occur to her to imagine that a well-looking young -stranger attaching himself to her own party might be ineligible. Of -Arthur Rivers she had known that his family lived in an obscure street -in Clifton, which furnished her with objections at once. But of Mr. -Everard, who had saved the children’s lives, she had no doubts. She did, -indeed, mean to ask him if he belonged to the Everards of Essex, but in -the meantime was quite willing to take that for granted. - -“It is so curious,” she said, making room for him to bring a chair -beside her, “that you and Rosalind should have met before, and how -fortunate for us! Oh, yes, Highcourt is a fine place. Of course we think -so, Rosalind and I, having both been born there. We think there is no -place in the world like it; but I have a right to feel myself impartial, -for I have been a good deal about; and there is no doubt it is a fine -place. Did you see over the house, Mr. Everard? Oh, no, of course it was -when my poor brother was ill. There were so many trying circumstances,” -she added, lowering her voice, “that we thought it best just to leave -it, you know, and the Elms does very well for the children as long as -they are children. Of course, when Reginald comes of age-- Do you know -the neighborhood of Clifton, Mr. Everard? Oh, you must come and see me -there. It is a capital hunting country, you know, and that is always an -inducement to a gentleman.” - -“I should have no need of any inducement, if you are so kind.” - -“It is you that have been kind,” Mrs, Lennox said. “I am sure if we can -do anything to make our house agreeable to you-- Now tell me how you get -on here. How often do you take the baths? Oh, I hope you are regular--so -much depends upon regularity, they tell me. Lady Blashfield, whom I was -talking to at dinner, tells me that if you miss one it is as bad as -giving up altogether. It is the continuity, she says. Young men are very -difficult to guide in respect to their health. My dear husband, that is, -Mr. Pulteney, my _first_ dear husband, whom I lost when we were both -quite young, might have been here now, poor dear fellow, if he had only -consented to be an invalid, and to use the remedies. You must let one -who has suffered so much say a word of warning to you, Mr. Everard. Use -the remedies, and youth will do almost everything for you. He might have -been here now--” Mrs. Lennox paused and applied her handkerchief to her -eyes. - -Young Everard listened with the most devout attention, while Rosalind, -on her side, could not refrain from an involuntary reflection as to the -extreme inconvenience of Mr. Pulteney’s presence now. If that had been -all along possible, was not Aunt Sophy guilty of a kind of constructive -bigamy? To hear her dwelling upon this subject, and the stranger -listening with so much attention, gave Rosalind an insane desire to -laugh. Even Roland Hamerton, she thought, would have seen the humor of -the suggestion; but Everard was quite serious, lending an attentive ear. -He was very anxious to please. There was an absence of ease about him in -his anxiety. Not the ghost of a smile stole to his lips. He sat there -until Mrs. Lennox got tired, and remembered that the early hour at which -she began to bathe every morning made it expedient now to go to bed. He -was on the alert in a moment, offering his arm, and truly sympathetic -about the difficulty she expressed in rising from her chair. “I can get -on when once I am fairly started,” she said; “thank you so much, Mr. -Everard. Rosalind is very kind, but naturally in a gentleman’s arm there -is more support.” - -“I am so glad that I can be of use,” he said fervently. And Rosalind -followed up-stairs, carrying Aunt Sophy’s work, half pleased, half -amused, a little disconcerted by the sudden friendship which had arisen -between them. She was, herself, in a very uncertain, somewhat excited -state of mind. The re-appearance of the stranger who had achieved for -himself, she could not tell how, a place in her dreams, disturbed the -calm in which she had been living, which in itself was a calm unnatural -at her age. Her heart beat with curious content, expectation, doubt, and -anxiety. He was not like the other men whom she had known. There was -something uncertain about him, a curiosity as to what he would do or -say, a suppressed alarm in her mind as to whether his doings and sayings -would be satisfactory. He might make some terrible mistake. He might say -something that would set in a moment a great gulf between him and her. -It was uncomfortable, and yet perhaps it had a certain fascination in -it. She never knew what was the next thing he might say or do. But Aunt -Sophy was loud in his praises when they reached their own apartment. -“What a thoroughly nice person!” she said. “What a modest, charming -young man! not like so many, laughing in their sleeve, in a hurry to get -away, taking no trouble about elder people. Mr. Everard has been -thoroughly well brought up, Rosalind; he must have had a nice mother. -That is always what I think when I see a young man with such good -manners. His mother must have been a nice woman. I am sure if he had -been my own nephew he could not have been more attentive to me.” - -Rosalind said little in reply to this praise. She was pleased, and yet -an intrusive doubt would come in. To be a little original, not like all -the others, is not that an advantage? and yet-- She went to her own room, -thoughtful, yet with a sensation of novelty not without pleasure in her -mind, and paused, in passing, at the children’s door to pay them her -usual visit, and give them the kiss when they were asleep which their -mother was not near to give. This visit had a twofold meaning to -Rosalind. It was a visit of love to the little ones, that they might not -be deprived of any tenderness that she could give; and it was a sort of -pilgrimage of faithful devotion to the shrine which the mother had left -empty. A pang of longing for that mother, and of the wondering pain -which her name always called forth, was in her heart when she stooped -over the little beds. Ordinarily, everything was dim--the faint -night-light affording guidance to where they lay, and no more--and -still, with nothing but the soft breathing of the two children, one in -the outer and the other in the inner room. But to-night there was a -candle burning within and the sound of nurse’s voice soothing Johnny, -who, sitting up in his bed, was looking round him with eyes full of -light, and that large childish wakefulness which seems a sort of protest -against ever sleeping again. - -“Oh, Miss Rosalind, I don’t know what to do with Master Johnny; he says -a lady came and looked at him. You’ve not been here, have you, miss? I -tell him there is no lady. He must just have dreamed it.” - -“I didn’t dreamed it,” said Johnny. “It was a beautiful lady. She came -in _there_, and stood _here_. I want her to come again,” the child said, -gazing about him with his great eyes. - -“But it is impossible, Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse; “the door is -locked, and there is no lady. He just must have been dreaming. He is a -little upset with the accident.” - -“We wasn’t a bit upsetted,” said Johnny. “I could have doned it myself. -I wanted to tell the lady, Rosy, but she only said, ‘Go to sleep.’” - -“That was the very wisest thing she could say. Go to sleep, and I will -sit by you,” said Rosalind. - -It was some time, however, before Johnny accomplished the feat of going -to sleep. He was very talkative and anxious to fight his battles over -again, and explain exactly how he would have “doned” it. When the little -eyes closed at last, and all was still, Rosalind found the nurse waiting -in the outer room in some anxiety. - -“Yes, Miss Rosalind, I am sure he was off his head a little--not to call -wandering, but just a little off his head. For how could any lady have -got into this room? It is just his imagination. I had once a little boy -before who was just the same, always seeing ladies and people whenever -he was the least excited. I will give him a dose in the morning, and if -he sees her again I would just send for the doctor. It is all physical, -miss, them sort of visions,” said the nurse, who was up to the science -of her time. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -Mrs. Lennox’s cure went on through the greater part of the month of -September, and the friendship that had been begun so successfully grew -into intimacy perhaps in a shorter time than would have been credible -had the conditions of life been less easy. In the space of two or three -days Mr. Everard had become almost a member of Mrs. Lennox’s party. He -dined with them two evenings out of three. He walked by the elder lady’s -chair when she went to her bath, he was always ready to give her his arm -when she wished it, to help her to her favorite seat in the garden, to -choose a place for her from which she could most comfortably hear the -music. All these services to herself Aunt Sophy was quite aware were the -price the young man paid for permission to approach Rosalind, to admire -and address her, to form part of her surroundings, and by degrees to -become her almost constant companion. Mrs. Lennox agreed with Mr. -Ruskin that this sort of apprenticeship in love was right and natural. -If in spite of all these privileges he failed to please, she would have -been sorry for him indeed, but would not have felt that he had any right -to complain. It was giving him his chance like another; and she was of -opinion that a lover or two on hand was a cheerful thing for a house. In -the days of Messrs. Hamerton and Rivers the effect had been very good, -and she had liked these unwearied attendants, these unpaid officers of -the household, who were always ready to get anything or do anything that -might happen to be wanted. It was lonely to be without one of those -hangers-on, and she accepted with a kind of mild enthusiasm the young -man who had begun his probation by so striking an exhibition of his -fitness for the post. It may be objected that her ready reception of a -stranger without any introduction or guarantee of his position was -imprudent in the extreme, for who could undertake that Rosalind might -not accept this suitor with more ready sympathy than she had shown for -the others? And there can be no doubt that this was the case; but as a -matter of fact Mrs. Lennox was not prudent, and it was scarcely to be -expected that she should exercise a virtue unfamiliar to her in respect -to the young man who had, as she loved to repeat, saved the lives of the -children. He was one of the Essex Everards, she made no doubt. She had -always forgotten to ask him, and as, she said, they had never got upon -the subject of his family, he had said nothing to her about them. But -there was nothing wonderful in that. It is always pleasant when a young -man does talk about his people, and lets you know how many brothers and -sisters he has, and all the family history, but a great many young men -don’t do so, and there was nothing at all wonderful about it in this -case. A young man who is at Aix for the baths, who has been at most -places where the travelling English go, who can talk like other people -about Rome and Florence, not to speak of a great many out-of-the-way -regions--it would be ridiculous to suppose that he was not “of our own -class.” Even Aunt Sophy’s not very fastidious taste detected a few wants -about him. He was not quite perfect in all points in his manners; he -hesitated when a man in society would not have hesitated. He had not -been at any university, nor even at a public school. All these things, -however, Mrs. Lennox accounted for easily--when she took the trouble to -think of them at all--by the supposition that he had been brought up at -home, most likely in the country. “Depend upon it, he is an only child,” -she said to Rosalind, “and he has been delicate--one can see that he is -delicate still--and they have brought him up at home. Well, perhaps it -is wrong--at least, all the gentlemen say so; but if I had an only child -I think I should very likely do the same, and I am sure I feel very much -for his poor mother. Why? Oh, because I don’t think he is strong, -Rosalind. He colors like a girl when he makes any little mistake. He is -not one of your bold young men that have a way of carrying off -everything. He does make little mistakes, but then that is one of the -things that is sure to happen when you bring boys up at home.” - -Rosalind, who became more and more inclined as the days went on to take -the best view of young Everard’s deficiencies, accepted very kindly this -explanation. It silenced finally, she believed, that chill and horrible -doubt, that question which she had put to herself broadly when she saw -him first, which she did not even insinuate consciously now, but which -haunted her, do what she would. Was he, perhaps, not exactly a -gentleman? No, she did not ask that now. No doubt Aunt Sophy (who -sometimes hit upon the right explanation, though she could not be called -clever) was right, and the secret of the whole matter was that he had -been brought up at home. There could be no doubt that the deficiencies -which had at first suggested this most awful of all questions became -rather interesting than otherwise when you came to know him better. They -were what might be called ignorances, self-distrusts, an unassured -condition of mind, rather than deficiencies; and his blush over his -“little mistakes,” as Mrs. Lennox called them, and the half-uttered -apology and the deprecatory look, took away from a benevolent observer -all inclination towards unkindly criticism. Mrs. Lennox, who soon became -“quite fond of” the young stranger, told him frankly when he did -anything contrary to the code of society, and he took such rebukes in -the very best spirit, but was unfortunately apt to forget and fall into -the same blunder again. There were some of these mistakes which kept the -ladies in amusement, and some which made Rosalind, as she became more -and more “interested,” blush with hot shame--a far more serious feeling -than that which made the young offender blush. For instance, when he -found her sketch-book one morning, young Everard fell into ecstasies -over the sketch Rosalind had been making of the lake on that eventful -afternoon which had begun their intercourse. It was a very bad sketch, -and Rosalind knew it. That golden sheet of water, full of light, full of -reflections, with the sun blazing upon it, and the hills rising up on -every side, and the sky looking down into its depths, had become a piece -of yellow mud with daubs of blue and brown here and there, and the reeds -in the foreground looked as if they had been cut out of paper and pasted -on. “Don’t look at it. I can’t do very much, but yet I can do better -than that,” she had said, finding him in rapt contemplation of her -unsatisfactory performance, and putting out her hand to close the book. -He looked up at her, for he was seated by the table, hanging over the -sketch with rapture, with the most eager deprecation. - -“I think it is lovely,” he said; “don’t try to take away my enjoyment. I -wonder how any one can turn a mere piece of paper into a picture!” - -“You are laughing at me,” said Rosalind, with a little offence. - -“I--laughing! I would as soon laugh in church. I think it is beautiful. -I can’t imagine how you do it. Why, there are the reflections in the -water just as you see them. I never thought before that it was so -pretty.” - -“Oh!” Rosalind cried, drawing a long breath. It hurt her that he should -say so, and it hurt still more to think that he was endeavoring to -please her by saying so. “I am sure it is your kindness that makes you -praise it; but, Mr. Everard, you must know that I am not quite ignorant. -When you say such things of this daub it sounds like contempt--as if you -thought I did not know better.” - -“But suppose I don’t know any better?” he said, looking up at her with -lustrous eyes full of humility, without even his usual self-disgust at -having said something wrong. “Indeed, you must believe me, I don’t. It -is quite true. Is it a fault, Miss Trevanion, when one does not know?” - -What could Rosalind say? She stood with her hand put out towards the -book, looking down upon the most expressive countenance, a face which of -itself was a model for a painter. There was very little difference -between them in age, perhaps a year or so to his advantage, not more; -and something of the freemasonry of youth was between them, besides the -more delicate link of sentiment. Yes, she said to herself, it was a -fault. A man, a gentleman, should not be so ignorant. Something must be -wrong before such ignorance could be. But how say this or anything like -it to her companion, who threw himself so entirely upon her mercy? She -closed the book that had been open before him and drew it hastily away. - -“I am afraid,” she said, “your eye is not good; of course it is no fault -except to think that _I_ could be so silly, that I could accept praise -which I don’t deserve.” - -“Ah!” he said, “I see what you mean. You despise me for my ignorance, -and it is true I am quite ignorant; but then how could I help it? I have -never been taught.” - -“Oh!” cried Rosalind again, thinking the apology worse than the fault, -bad as that was. “But you have seen pictures--you have been in the -galleries?” - -“Without any instruction,” he said. “I do admire _that_, but I don’t -care for the galleries. Oh, but I never say so except to you.” - -She was silent in the dreadful situation in which she found herself. She -did not know how to behave, such unutterable want of perception had -never come in her way before. - -“Then I suppose,” she said, with awful calm, “the chromo-lithographs, -those are what you like? Mine is something like them, that is why you -approve of it, I suppose?” - -“I like it,” he said simply, “because you were doing it that day, and -because that is where I saw you sitting when everything happened. And -because the lake and the mountains and the sky all seem yours to me -now.” - -This speech was of a character very difficult to ignore and pass over as -if it meant nothing. But Rosalind had now some experience, and was not -unused to such situations. She said hurriedly, “I see--it is the -association that interests you. I remember a very great person, a great -author, saying something like that. He said it was the story of the -pictures he liked, and when that pleased him he did not think so much -about the execution. If he had not been a great person he would not have -dared to say it. An artist, a true artist, would shiver to hear such a -thing. But that explains why you like my daub. It is better than if you -really thought it itself worthy of praise.” - -“But I--” here young Everard paused; he saw by her eyes that he must not -go any further, there was a little kindling of indignation in them. -Where had he been all his life that he did not know any better than -that? Had he gone on, Rosalind might not have been able to contain -herself, and there were premonitory symptoms in the air. - -“I wish,” he said, “that you would tell me what is nice and what isn’t.” - -“Nice! Oh, Mr, Everard!” Rosalind breathed out with a shudder. “Perhaps -you would call Michael Angelo nice,” she added, with a laugh. - -“It is very likely that I might; you must forgive me. I have a relation -who laughs at me in the same way, but how can one know if one has never -been taught?” - -“One is never taught such things,” it was on Rosalind’s lips to say, but -with an impatient sigh she forbore. Afterwards, when she began to -question herself on the subject, Rosalind took some comfort from the -thought that Roland Hamerton knew almost as little about art as it is -possible for a well-bred young Englishman to know. Ah! but that made all -the difference. He knew enough to have thought her sketch a dreadful -production; he knew enough to abhor the style of the chromo-lithograph. -Even a man who has been brought up at home must have seen the pictures -on his own walls. This thought cast her down again, but she began after -this to break up into small morsels adapted to her companion’s -comprehension the simplest principles of art, and to give him little -hints about the fundamental matters which are part of a gentleman’s -education in this respect, and even to indicate to him what terms are -commonly used. He was very quick; he did not laugh out at her efforts as -Roland would have done; he picked up the hints and adopted every -suggestion--all which compliances pleased Rosalind in a certain sense, -yet in another wrapped her soul in trouble, reviving again and again -that most dreadful of all possible doubts, just when she thought that it -had been safely laid to rest. - -And yet all the while this daily companion made his way into something -which, if not the heart, was dangerously near it, a sort of vestibule of -the heart, where those who enter may hope to go further with good luck. -He was ignorant in many ways. He did not know much more of books than of -pictures--sometimes he expressed an opinion which took away her -breath--and he was always on the watch for indications how far he might -go; a sort of vigilance which was highly uncomfortable, and suggested -some purpose on his part, some pursuit which was of more consequence to -him than his natural opinions or traditions, all of which he seemed -ready to sacrifice at a word. Rosalind was used to the ease of society, -an ease, perhaps, more apparent than real, and this eagerness -disconcerted her greatly. It was true that it might bear a flattering -interpretation, if it was to recommend himself to her that he was ready -to make all these sacrifices, to change even his opinions, to give up -everything that could displease her. If all expedients are fair in love, -is it not justifiable to watch that no word may offend, to express no -liking unless it is sure to be in harmony with the tastes of the object -loved, to be always on the alert and never to forget the purpose aimed -at? This question might, perhaps, by impartial persons, be considered -open to a doubt, but when one is one’s self the object of such profound -homage it is natural that the judgment should be slightly biassed. And -there was a certain personal charm about him notwithstanding all his -deficiencies. It was difficult for a girl not to be touched by the -devotion which shone upon her from such a pair of wonderful eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -While this intercourse was going on, and Mr. Everard became more and -more the associate of the ladies, the little shock that had been given -them by the result of Johnny’s excitement on the night of the accident -grew into something definite and rather alarming. Johnny was not ill--so -far as appeared, he was not even frightened; but he continued to see -“the lady” from time to time, and more than once a cry from the room in -which he slept had summoned Rosalind, and even Mrs. Lennox, forgetful of -her rheumatism. On these occasions Johnny would be found sitting up in -his bed, his great eyes like two lamps, shining even in the dim glow of -the night-light. It was at an hour when he should have been asleep, when -nurse had gone to her supper, and to that needful relaxation which -nurses as well as other mortals require. The child was not frightened, -but there was a certain excitement about this periodical awakening. “The -lady! the lady!” he said. “Oh, my darling,” cried Aunt Sophy, -trembling; “what lady? There could be no lady. You have been dreaming. -Go to sleep, Johnny, and think of it no more.” - -“I sawed her,” cried the child. He pushed away Mrs. Lennox and clung to -Rosalind, who had her arms round him holding him fast. “I never was -asleep at all, Rosy; I just closed my eyes, and then I opened them and I -sawed the lady.” - -“Oh, Rosalind, he has just been dreaming. Oh, Johnny dear, that is all -nonsense; there was no lady!” Aunt Sophy cried. - -“Tell me about her,” said Rosalind. “Was it a strange lady? Did you know -who she was?” - -“It is just _the_ lady,” cried Johnny, impatiently. “I told you before. -She is much more taller than Aunt Sophy, with a black thing over her -head. She wouldn’t stay, because you came running, and she didn’t want -you. But I want the lady to speak to me-- I want her to speak to me. Go -away, Rosy!” the little fellow cried. - -“Dear, the lady will not come back again to-night. Tell me about her. -Johnny, did you know who she was?” - -“I told you: she’s just _the_ lady,” cried Johnny, with the air of one -whose explanation leaves nothing to be desired. - -“Oh, Rosalind, you are just encouraging him in his nonsense. He was -dreaming. My darling, you were dreaming. Nurse, here is this little boy -been dreaming again about the lady, as he calls her. You must give him a -dose. He must have got his little digestion all wrong. It can be nothing -but that, you know,” Aunt Sophy said. She drew the nurse, who had -hastened up from her hour’s relaxation in alarm, with her into the outer -room. Mrs. Lennox herself was trembling. She clutched the woman’s arm -with a nervous grasp. “What does he mean about this lady? Is there any -story about a lady? I am quite sure it is all nonsense, or that it is -just a dream,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a nervous flutter in the bow of -her cap. “Is there any story (though it is all nonsense) of a haunted -room or anything of that sort? If there is, I sha’n’t stay here, not -another day.” - -The nurse, however, had heard no such story: she stood whispering with -her mistress, talking over this strange occurrence, while Rosalind -soothed and quieted the excited child. Amy’s little bed was in the outer -room, but all was still there, the child never stirring, so absolutely -noiseless that her very presence was forgotten by the two anxious women -comparing notes. “He always keeps to the same story,” said nurse. “I -can’t tell what to make of it, ma’am, but Master Johnny always was a -little strange.” - -“What do you mean by a little strange? He is a dear child, he never -gives any trouble, he is just a darling,” Aunt Sophy said. “It is his -digestion that has got a little wrong. A shock like that of the other -day--it sometimes will not tell for some time, and as often as not it -puts their little stomachs wrong. A little medicine will set everything -right.” - -Nurse demurred to this, having notions of her own, and the discussion -went on till Rosalind, who had persuaded Johnny to compose himself, and -sat by him till he fell asleep, came out and joined them. “It will be -better for you not to leave him without calling me or some one,” she -said. - -“Miss Rosalind!” cried nurse, with natural desperation, “children is -dreadfully tiring to have them all day long, and every day. And nurses -is only flesh and blood like other people. If I’m never to have a -moment’s rest, day nor night, I think I shall go off my head.” - -All this went on in the room where little Amy lay asleep. She was so -still that she was not considered at all. She was, indeed, at all times -so little disposed to produce herself or make any call upon the -attention of those about her, that the family, as is general, took poor -little Amy at her own showing and left her to herself. It did not even -seem anything remarkable that she was so still--and nobody perceived the -pair of wide-open eyes with which she watched all that was going on -under the corner of the coverlet. Even Rosalind scarcely looked towards -her little sister’s bed, and all the pent-up misery and terror which a -child can conceal (and how much that implies) lay unconsoled and -unlightened in poor little Amy’s breast. Meanwhile Johnny had fallen -fast asleep, untroubled by any further thought of the apparition which -only he was supposed to have seen. - -This brought a great deal of trouble into the minds of Johnny’s -guardians. Mrs. Lennox was so nearly breaking down under a sense of the -responsibility that her rheumatism, instead of improving with her baths, -grew worse than ever, and she became so stiff that Rosalind and Everard -together were needed, each at one arm, to raise her from her chair. The -doctor was sent for, who examined Johnny, and, after hearing all the -story, concluded that it was suppressed gout in the child’s system, and -that baths to bring it out would be the best cure. He questioned Mrs. -Lennox so closely as to her family and all their antecedents that it -very soon appeared a certain fact that all the Trevanions had suffered -from suppressed gout, which explained everything, and especially all -peculiarities in the mind or conduct. “The little boy,” said the doctor, -who spoke English so well, “is the victim of the physiological sins of -his forefathers. Pardon, madam; I do not speak in a moral point of view. -They drank Oporto wine and he sees what you call ghosts; the succession -is very apparent. This child,” turning to Amy, who stood by, “she also -has suppressed gout.” - -“Oh, Amy is quite well,” cried Aunt Sophy; “there is nothing at all the -matter with Amy. But it cannot be denied that there is gout in the -family. Indeed, when gentlemen come to a certain age they always suffer -in that way, though I am sure I don’t know why. My poor father and -grandfather, too, as I have always heard. Your papa, Rosalind, with him -it was the heart.” - -“They are all connected. Rheumatism, it is the brother of gout, and -rheumatism is the tyrant which affects the heart. No, my dear young -lady, it is not the emotions, nor love, nor disappointment, nor any of -the pretty things you think; it is rheumatism that is most fatal for the -heart. I will settle for the little boy a course of baths, and he will -see no more ladies; that is,” said the doctor, with a wave of his hand, -“except the very charming ladies whom he has a right to see. But this -child, she has it more pronounced; she is more ill than the little boy.” - -“Oh, no, doctor, it is only that Amy is always pale; there is nothing -the matter with her. Do you feel anything the matter with you, Amy, my -dear?” - -“No, Aunt Sophy,” said the little girl in a very low voice, turning her -head away. - -“I told you so; there is nothing the matter with her. She is a pale -little thing. She never has any color. But Johnny! Doctor, oh, I hope -you will do your best for Johnny! He quite destroys all our peace and -comfort. I am afraid to open my eyes after I go to bed, lest I should -see the lady too; for that sort of thing is very catching. You get it -into your mind. If there is any noise I can’t account for, I feel -disposed to scream. I am sure I shall be seeing it before long if Johnny -gets no better. But I have always supposed in such cases that it was the -digestion that was out of order,” Mrs. Lennox said, returning, but -doubtfully, to her original view. - -“It is all the same thing,” said the doctor, cheerfully waving his hand; -and then he patted Johnny on the head, who was half overawed, half -pleased, to have an illness which procured unlimited petting without any -pain. The little fellow began his baths immediately, but next night he -saw the lady again. This time he woke and found her bending over him, -and gave forth the cry which was now so well known by all the party. -Mrs. Lennox, who rushed into the room the first, being in her own -chamber, which was near Johnny’s, had to be led back to the sitting-room -in a state of nervous prostration, trembling and sobbing. When she was -placed in her chair and a glass of wine administered to her, she -declared that she had seen it too. “Oh, how can you ask me what it was? -I saw something move. Do you think,” with a gasp, “Rosalind, that one -can keep one’s wits about one, with all that going on? I am sure I saw -something--something black go out of the door--or at least something -moved. The curtain? oh, how can you say it was the curtain? I never -thought of that. Are you sure you didn’t see anything, Rosalind?” - -“I saw the wind in the curtain, Aunt Sophy: the window was open, and it -blew out and almost frightened me too.” - -“Oh, I could not say I was frightened,” said Mrs. Lennox, grasping -Rosalind’s hand tight. “A curtain does bulge out with the wind, doesn’t -it? I never thought of that. I saw something--move--I--wasn’t -frightened, only a little nervous. Perhaps it was--the wind in the -curtain. You are sure you were frightened too.” - -“It blew right out upon me, like some one coming to meet me.” - -Aunt Sophy grasped Rosalind’s hand tight. “It must have some -explanation,” she said. “It couldn’t be anything super-- You don’t -believe in--that sort of thing, Rosalind?” - -“Dear Aunt Sophy, I am sure it was the curtain. I saw it too. I would -not say so if I did not feel--sure--” - -“Oh, my dear, what a comfort it is to have a cool head like yours. -You’re not carried away by your feelings like me. I’m so sympathetic, I -feel as other people feel; to hear Johnny cry just made me I can’t tell -how. It was dreadfully like some one moving, Rosalind.” - -“Yes, Aunt Sophy. When the wind got into the folds, it was exactly like -some one moving.” - -“You are sure it was the curtain, Rosalind.” - -Poor Rosalind was as little sure as any imaginative girl could be; she, -too, was very much shaken by Johnny’s vision; at her age it is so much -more easy to believe in the supernatural than in spectral illusions or -derangement of the digestion. She did not believe that the stomach was -the source of fancy, or that imagination only meant a form of suppressed -gout. Her nerves were greatly disturbed, and she was as ready to see -anything, if seeing depended upon an excited condition, as any young and -impressionable person ever was. She was glad to soothe Mrs. Lennox with -an easy explanation. But Rosalind did not believe that it was the -curtain which had deceived Johnny. Neither did she believe in the baths, -or in the suppressed gout. She was convinced in her mind that the child -spoke the truth, and that it was some visitor from the unseen who came -to him. But who was it? Dark fears crossed her mind, and many a wistful -wonder. There were no family warnings among the Trevanions, or it is to -be feared that reason would have yielded in Rosalind’s mind to nature -and faith. As it was, her heart grew feverish and expectant. The arrival -of the letters from England every morning filled her with terror. She -dreaded to see a black-bordered envelope, a messenger of death. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -Johnny throve, notwithstanding his visions. He woke up in the morning -altogether unaffected, so far as appeared, by what he saw at night. He -had always been more or less the centre of interest, both by dint of -being the only male member of the party and because he was the youngest, -and he was more than ever the master of the situation now. He did not -mind his baths, and he relished the importance of his position. So much -time as Mrs. Lennox had free from her “cure” was entirely occupied with -Johnny. She thought he wanted “nourishment” of various dainty kinds, to -which the little fellow had not the least objection. Secretly in her -heart Aunt Sophy was opposed to the idea of suppressed gout, and clung -to that of impaired digestion. Delicate fricassees of chicken, game, the -earliest products of _la chasse_, she ordered for him instead of the -roast mutton of old. He had fine custards and tempting jellies, while -Sophy and Amy ate their rice pudding; and in the intervals between his -meals Aunt Sophy administered glasses of wine, cups of jelly, hunches of -spongecake, to the boy. He took it all with the best grace in the -world--and an appetite which it was a pleasure to see--and throve and -grew, but nevertheless still saw the lady at intervals with a -pertinacity which was most discouraging. It may be supposed that an -incident so remarkable had not passed without notice in the curious -little community of the hotel. And the first breath of it, whispered by -nurse in the ear of some confidante, brought up the landlady from the -bureau in a painful condition of excitement, first to inquire and then -to implore that complete secrecy might be kept on the matter. Madame -protested that there was no ghost in her well-regulated house. If the -little boy saw anything it must be a ghost whom the English family had -brought with them: such things, it was well known, did exist in English -houses. But there were no ghosts in Aix, much less in the Hotel Venat. -To request ladies in the middle of their cure to find other quarters was -impossible, not to say that Madame Lennox and her charming family were -quite the most distinguished party at the hotel, and one which she would -not part with on any consideration; but if the little monsieur continued -to have his digestion impaired (and she could recommend a most excellent -_tisane_ that worked marvels), might she beg _ces dames_ to keep silence -on the subject? The reputation of a hotel was like that of a woman, and -if once breathed upon-- Mrs. Lennox remained in puzzling and puzzled -silence for some time after this visit was over. About a quarter of an -hour after her thought burst forth. - -“Rosalind! I don’t feel at all reassured by what that woman said. Why -should she make all that talk about the house if there wasn’t some truth -in it? It is a very creepy, disagreeable thing to think of, and us -living on the very brink of it, so to speak. But, after all, what if -Johnny’s lady should be something--some--appearance, some mystery about -the house?” - -“You thought it was Johnny’s digestion, Aunt Sophy.” - -“So I did: but then, you know, one says that sort of thing when one -can’t think of anything else. I believe it is his digestion, but, at the -same time, how can one tell what sort of things may have happened in -great big foreign houses, and so many queer people coming and going? -There might have been a murder or something, for anything we know.” - -This suggestion awoke a tremor in Rosalind’s heart, for she was not very -strong-minded, nor fortified by any consistent opinion in respect to -ghosts. She said somewhat faintly, with a laugh, “I never heard of a -ghost in a hotel.” - -“In a hotel? I should think a hotel was just the sort of place, with all -kinds of strange people. Mind, however,” said Aunt Sophy after a pause, -“I don’t believe in ghosts at all, not at all; there are no such things. -Only foolish persons, servants and the uneducated, put any faith in them -(it was the entrance of Amy and Sophy in the midst of this discussion -that called forth such a distinct profession of faith); and now your -Uncle John is coming,” she added cheerfully, “and it will all be cleared -up and everything will come right.” - -“Will Uncle John clear up about the lady?” said Sophy, with a toss of -her little impertinent head. “He will just laugh, I know. He will say he -wished he had ladies come to see him like that. Uncle John,” said this -small critic, “is never serious at all about us children. Oh, perhaps -about you grown-up people; but he will just laugh, I know. And so shall -I laugh. All the fuss that is made is because Johnny is the boy. Me and -Amy, we might see elephants and you would not mind, Aunt Sophy. It is -because Johnny is the boy.” - -“You are a little impertinent! I think just as much about Amy--and the -child is looking pale, don’t you think so, Rosalind? But you are never -disturbed in your sleep, my pet, nor take things in your little head. -You are the quietest little woman. Indeed, I wish she would be naughty -sometimes, Rosalind. What is the matter with you, dear? Don’t you want -me to talk to you? Well, if my arm is disagreeable, Amy--” - -“Oh, no, no, Aunt Sophy!” cried the child, with an impetuous kiss, but -she extricated herself notwithstanding, and went away to the farther -window, where she sat down on a footstool, half hidden among the -curtains. The two ladies, looking at her, began to remember at the same -moment that this had become Amy’s habitual place. She was always so -quiet that to become a little quieter was not remarked in her as it -would have been in the other children: she had always been pale, but not -so pale as now. The folds of the long white curtain, falling half over -her, added to the delicacy of her aspect. She seemed to shrink and hide -herself from their gaze, though she was not conscious of it. - -“Dear me!” said Aunt Sophy, “perhaps there is something after all in the -doctor’s idea of suppressed gout being in the family. You don’t show any -signs of it, Rosalind, Heaven be praised! or Sophy either; but just look -at that child, how pale she is!” - -Rosalind did not make any reply. She called her little sister to her -presently, but Amy declared that she was “reading a book,” which was, -under Mrs. Lennox’s sway, a reason above all others for leaving the -little student undisturbed. Mrs. Lennox had not been used to people who -were given to books, and she admired the habit greatly. “Don’t call her -if she is reading, Rosalind. I wonder how it is the rest of you don’t -read. But Amy always has her book. Perhaps it is because of reading so -much that she is so pale. Well, Uncle John is coming to-morrow, and he -will want the children to take long walks, and I dare say all this -little confusion will blow away. I wish John had come a little sooner; -he might have tried the ‘cure’ as well as me, for I am sure he has -rheumatism, if not gout. Gentlemen always have one or the other when -they come to your uncle’s age, and it might have saved him an illness -later,” said Aunt Sophy. She had to go away in her chair, in a few -minutes, for her bath, and it was this that made her think what an -excellent thing it would be for John. - -When she had gone, Rosalind sat very silent with her two little sisters -in the room. Sophy went on talking, while Rosalind mused and kept -silent. She was so well accustomed to Sophy talking that she took little -notice of it. When the little girl said anything of sufficient -importance to penetrate the mist of self-abstraction in which her sister -sat, Rosalind would answer her. But generally she took little notice. -She woke up, however, in the midst of one of Sophy’s sentences which -caught her ear, she could not tell why. - -“Think it’s a real lady?” Sophy said. It was at the end of a long -monologue, during which her somewhat sharp voice had run on monotonous -without variety. “Think it’s a real lady? There could be no ghost here, -or if there was, why should it go to Johnny, who don’t understand, who -has no sense. I think it’s a real lady that comes in to look at the -children. Perhaps she is fond of children; perhaps she’s not in her -right mind,” said Sophy; “perhaps she has lost a little boy like Johnny; -perhaps--” here she clapped her hands together, which startled Rosalind -greatly, and made little Amy, looking up with big eyes from within the -curtain, jump from her seat; “I know who it is--it is the lady that gave -him the toy.” - -“The toy--what toy?” - -“Oh, you know very well, Rosalind. That is what it is--the lady that had -lost a child like Johnny, that brought him that thing that you wind up, -that runs, that nurse says must have cost a mint of money. She says mint -of money, and why shouldn’t I? I shall watch to-night, and try if I -can’t see her,” cried Sophy; “that is the lady! and Johnny is such a -little silly he has never found it out. But it is a _real_ lady, that I -am quite certain, whatever the children say.” - -“But Amy has never seen anything, Sophy, or heard anything,” Rosalind -said. - -“Oh, Rosalind, how soft you are! How could she help hearing about it, -with Aunt Sophy and you rampaging in the room every night! You don’t -know how deep she is; she would just go on and go on, and never tell.” - -“Amy, come here,” said Rosalind. - -“Oh, please, Rosy! I am in such an interesting part.” - -“Amy, come here--you can go back to your book after. Sophy says you have -heard about the lady Johnny thinks he sees.” - -“Yes, Rosalind.” - -“You have known about her perhaps all the time, though we thought you -slept so sound and heard nothing! You don’t mean that you have seen her -too?” - -Amy stood by her sister’s knee, her hand reluctantly allowing itself to -be held in Rosalind’s hand. She submitted to this questioning with the -greatest reluctance, her little frame all instinct with eagerness to get -away. But here she gave a hasty look upward as if drawn by the -attraction of Rosalind’s eyes. How strange that no one had remarked how -white and small she had grown! She gave her sister a solemn, momentary -look, with eyes that seemed to expand as they looked, but said nothing. - -“Amy, can’t you answer me?” Rosalind cried. - -Amy’s eyelids grew big with unwilling tears, and she made a great effort -to draw away her hand. - -“Tell me, Amy, is there anything you can’t tell Rosalind? You shall not -be worried or scolded, but tell me.” - -There was a little pause, and then the child flung her arms round her -sister’s neck and hid her face. “Oh, Rosalind!” - -“Yes, my darling, what is it? Tell me!” - -Amy clung as if she would grow there, and pressed her little head, as if -the contact strengthened her, against the fair pillar of Rosalind’s -throat. But apparently it was easier to cling there and give vent to a -sob or two than to speak. She pressed closer and closer, but she made no -reply. - -“She has seen her every time,” said Sophy, “only she’s such a story she -won’t tell. She is always seeing her. When you think she’s asleep she is -lying all shivering and shaking with the sheet over her head. That is -how I found out. She is so frightened she can’t go to sleep. I said I -should tell Rosalind; Rosalind is the eldest, and she ought to know. But -then, Amy thinks--” - -“What, Sophy?” - -“Well, that you are only our half-sister. You _are_ only our -half-sister, you know. We all think that, and perhaps you wouldn’t -understand.” - -To Rosalind’s heart this sting of mistrust went sharp and keen, -notwithstanding the close strain of the little girl’s embrace which -seemed to protest against the statement. “Is it really, really so?” she -cried, in a voice of anguish. “Do you think I am not your real sister, -you little ones? Have I done anything to make you think--” - -“Oh, no, no! Oh, Rosalind, no! Oh, no, no!” cried the little girl, -clasping closer and closer. The ghost, if it was a ghost, the “lady” -who, Sophy was sure, was a “real lady,” disappeared in the more -immediate pressure of this poignant question. Even Rosalind, who had now -herself to be consoled, forgot, in the pang of personal suffering, to -inquire further. - -And they were still clinging together in excitement and tears when the -door was opened briskly, and Uncle John, all brown and dusty and -smiling, a day too soon, and much pleased with himself for being so, -suddenly marched into the room. A more extraordinary change of sentiment -could not be conceived. The feminine tears dried up in a moment, the -whole aspect of affairs changed. He was so strong, so brown, so cordial, -so pleased to see them, so full of cheerful questions, and the account -of what he had done. “Left London only yesterday,” he said, “and here I -am. What’s the matter with Amy? Crying! You must let her off, Rosalind, -whatever the sin may be, for my sake.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -The arrival of John Trevanion made a great difference to the family -group, which had become absorbed, as women are so apt to be, in the -circle of little interests about them, and to think Johnny’s visions the -most important things in the world. Uncle John would hear nothing at all -of Johnny’s visions. “Pooh!” he said. Mrs. Lennox was half disposed to -think him brutal and half to think him right. He scoffed at the -fricassee of chicken and the cups of jelly. “He looks as well as -possible,” said Uncle John. “Amy is a little shadow, but the boy is fat -and flourishing,” and he laughed with an almost violent effusion of -mirth at the idea of the suppressed gout. “Get them all off to some -place among the hills, or, if it is too late for that, come home,” he -said. - -“But, John, my cure!” cried Mrs. Lennox; “you don’t know how rheumatic I -have become. If it was not a little too late I should advise you to try -it too; for, of course, we have gout in the family, whatever you may -say, and it might save you an illness another time. Rosalind, was not -Mr. Everard coming to lunch? I quite forgot him in the pleasure of -seeing your uncle. Perhaps we ought to have waited, but, then, John, -coming off his journey, wanted his luncheon; and I dare say Mr. Everard -will not mind. He is always so obliging. He would not mind going without -his luncheon altogether to serve a friend.” - -“Who is Mr. Everard?” said John Trevanion. He was pleased to meet them -all, and indisposed to find fault with anything. Why should he go -without his lunch? - -“Oh, he is very nice,” said Aunt Sophy somewhat evasively; “he is here -for his ‘cure,’ like all the rest. Surely I wrote to you, or some one -wrote to you, about the accident with the boat, and how the children’s -lives were saved? Well, this is the gentleman. He has been a great deal -with us ever since. He is quite young, but I think he looks younger than -he is, and he has very nice manners,” Mrs. Lennox continued, with a dim -sense, which began to grow upon her, that explanations were wanted, and -a conciliatory fulness of detail. “It is very kind of him making himself -so useful as he does. I ask him quite freely to do anything for me; and, -of course, being a young person, it is more cheerful for Rosalind.” - -Here she made a little pause, in which for the first time there was a -consciousness of guilt, or, if not of guilt, of imprudence. John might -think that a young person who made things more cheerful for Rosalind -required credentials. John might look as gentlemen have a way of looking -at individuals of their own sex introduced in their absence. Talk of -women being jealous of each other, Aunt Sophy said to herself, but men -are a hundred times more! and she began to wish that Mr. Everard might -forget his engagement, and not walk in quite so soon into the family -conclave. Rosalind’s mind, too, was disturbed by the same thought; she -felt that it would be better if Mr. Everard did not come, if he would -have the good taste to stay away when he heard of the new arrival. But -Rosalind, though she had begun to like him, and though her imagination -was touched by his devotion, had not much confidence in Everard’s good -taste. He would hesitate, she thought, he would ponder, but he would not -be so wise as to keep away. As a matter of fact this last reflection had -scarcely died from her mind when Everard came in, a little flushed and -anxious, having heard of the arrival, but regarding it from an opposite -point of view. He thought that it would be well to get the meeting over -while John Trevanion was still in the excitement of the reunion and -tired with his journey. There were various changes in his own appearance -since he had been at Highcourt, and he was three years older, but on the -other side he remembered so well his own meeting with Rosalind’s uncle -that he could not suppose himself to be more easily forgotten. In fact, -John Trevanion had a slight movement of surprise at sight of the young -intruder, and a vague sense of recognition as he met the eyes which -looked at him with a mixture of anxiety and deprecation. But he got up -and held out his hand, and said a few words of thanks for the great -service which Mr. Everard had rendered to the family, with the best -grace in the world, and though the presence of a stranger could scarcely -be felt otherwise than as an intrusion at such a moment, Everard himself -was perhaps the person least conscious of it. Rosalind, on the other -hand, was very conscious of it, and uncomfortably conscious that Everard -was not, yet ought to have been, aware of the inappropriateness of his -appearance. There was thus a certain cloud over the luncheon hour, which -would have been very merry and very pleasant but for the one individual -who did not belong to the party, and who, though wistfully anxious to -recommend himself, to do everything or anything possible to make himself -agreeable, yet could not see that the one thing to be done was to take -himself away. When he did so at last, John Trevanion broke off what he -was saying hurriedly--he was talking of Reginald, at school, a subject -very interesting to them all--and, turning to Rosalind, said, “I know -that young fellow’s face; where have I seen him before?” - -“I know, Uncle John,” cried Sophy; “he is the gentleman who was staying -at the Red Lion in the village, don’t you remember, before we left -Highcourt. Rosalind knew him directly, and so did I.” - -“Yes,” said Rosalind, faltering a little. “You remember I met you once -when he had done me a little service; that,” she said, with a sense that -she was making herself his advocate, and a deprecating, conciliatory -smile, “seems to be his specialty, to do people services.” - -“The gentleman who was at the Red Lion!” cried John Trevanion with a -start. “The fellow who----” and then he stopped short and cast upon his -guileless sister a look which made Mrs. Lennox tremble. - -“Oh, dear, dear, what have I done?” Aunt Sophy cried. - -“Nothing; it is of no consequence,” said he; but he got up, thrusting -his hands deep into his pockets, and walked about from one window to -another, and stared gloomily forth, without adding any more. - -“But he is very nice now,” said Sophy; “he is much more nicely dressed, -and I think he is handsome--rather. He is like Johnny a little. It was -nice of him, don’t you think, Uncle John, to save the children? They -weren’t anything to him, you know, and yet he went plunging into the -water with his clothes on--for, of course, he could not stop to take off -his clothes, and he couldn’t have done it either before Rosalind--and -had to walk all the way home in his wet trousers, all for the sake of -these little things. Everybody would not have done it,” said Sophy, with -importance, speaking as one who knew human nature. “It was very nice, -don’t you think, of Mr. Everard.” - -“Everard! Was that the name?” said Uncle John, incoherently; and he did -not sit down again, but kept walking up and down the long room in a way -some men have, to the great annoyance of Mrs. Lennox, who did not like -to see people, as she said, roving about like wild beasts. A certain -uneasiness had got into the atmosphere somehow, no one could tell why, -and when the children were called out for their walk Rosalind too -disappeared, with a consciousness, that wounded her and yet seemed -somehow a fault in herself, that the elders would be more at ease -without her presence. - -When they were all gone John turned upon his sister. “Sophy,” he said, -“I remember how you took me to task for bringing Rivers, a man of -character and talent, to the house, because his parentage was somewhat -obscure. Have you ever asked yourself what your own meaning was in -allowing a young adventurer, whose very character, I fear, will not bear -looking into, to make himself agreeable to Rosalind?” - -“John!” cried Mrs. Lennox, with a sudden scream, sitting up very upright -in her chair, and in her fright taking off her spectacles to see him the -better. - -“Yes,” cried John Trevanion, “I mean what I say. He has managed to make -himself agreeable to Rosalind. She takes his part already. She is -troubled when he puts himself in a false position.” - -“But, John, what makes you think he is an adventurer? I am quite sure he -is one of the Essex Everards, who are as good a family and as well -thought of--” - -“Did he tell you he was one of the Essex Everards?” - -Mrs. Lennox put on a very serious air of trying to remember. She bit her -lips, she contracted her forehead, she put up her hand to her head. “I -am sure,” she said, “I cannot recollect whether he ever _said_ it, but I -have always understood. Why, what other Everards could he belong to?” -she added, in the most candid tone. - -“That is just the question,” said John Trevanion; “the same sort of -Everards perhaps as my friend’s Riverses, or most likely not half so -good. Indeed, I’m not at all sure that your friend has any right even to -the name he claims. I both saw and heard of him before we left -Highcourt. By Jove!” He was not a man to swear, even in this easy way, -but he jumped up from the seat upon which he had thrown himself and grew -so red that Aunt Sophy immediately thought of the suppressed gout in the -family, and felt that it must suddenly have gone to his head. - -“Oh, John, my dear! what is it?” she cried. - -He paced about the room back and forward in high excitement, repeating -to himself that exclamation. “Oh, nothing, nothing! I can’t quite tell -what it is,” he said. - -“A twinge in your foot,” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Oh, John, though it is -late, very late, in the season, and you could not perhaps follow out the -cure altogether, you might at least take some of the baths as they are -ordered for Johnny. It might prevent an illness hereafter. It might, if -you took it in time--” - -“What is a ‘cure’?” said John. Mrs. Lennox pronounced the word, as -indeed it is intended that the reader should pronounce it in this -history, in the French way; but this in her honest mouth, used to good, -downright English pronunciation, sounded like _koor_, and the brother -did not know what it was. He laughed so long and so loudly at the idea -of preventing an illness by the cure, as he called it with English -brutality, and at the notion of Johnny’s baths, that Mrs. Lennox was -quite disconcerted and could not find a word to say. - -Rosalind had withdrawn with her mind full of disquietude. She was vexed -and annoyed by Everard’s ignorance of the usages of society and the -absence of perception in him. He should not have come up when he heard -that Uncle John had arrived; he should not have stayed. But Rosalind -reflected with a certain resentment and impatience that it was -impossible to make him aware of this deficiency, or to convey to him in -any occult way the perceptions that were wanting. This is not how a girl -thinks of her lover, and yet she was more disturbed by his failure to -perceive than any proceeding on the part of a person in whom she was not -interested could have made her. She had other cares in her mind, -however, which soon asserted a superior claim. Little Amy’s pale face, -her eyes so wistful and pathetic, which seemed to say a thousand things -and to appeal to Rosalind’s knowledge with a trust and faith which were -a bitter reproach to Rosalind, had given her a sensation which she could -not overcome. Was she too wanting in perception, unable to divine what -her little sister meant? It was well for her to blame young Everard and -to blush for his want of perception, she, who could not understand -little Amy! Her conversation with the children had thrown another light -altogether on Johnny’s vision. What if it were no trick of the -digestion, no excitement of the spirit, but something real, whether in -the body or out of the body, something with meaning in it? She resolved -that she would not allow this any longer to go on without investigation, -and, with a little thrill of excitement in her, arranged her plans for -the evening. It was not without a tremor that Rosalind took this -resolution. She had already many times taken nurse’s place without any -particular feeling on the subject, with the peaceful result that Johnny -slept soundly and nobody was disturbed; but this easy watch did not -satisfy her now. Notwithstanding the charm of Uncle John’s presence, -Rosalind hastened up-stairs after dinner when the party streamed forth -to take coffee in the garden, denying herself the pleasant stroll with -him which she had looked forward to, and which he in his heart was -wounded to see her withdraw from without a word. She flew along the -half-lighted passages with her heart beating high. - -The children’s rooms were in their usual twilight, the faint little -night-lamp in its corner, the little sleepers breathing softly in the -gloom. Rosalind placed herself unconsciously out of sight from the door, -sitting down behind Johnny’s bed, though without any intention by so -doing of hiding herself. If it were possible that any visitor from the -unseen came to the child’s bed, what could it matter that the watcher -was out of sight? She sat down there with a beating heart in the -semi-darkness which made any occupation impossible, and after a while -fell into the thoughts which had come prematurely to the mother-sister, -a girl, and yet with so much upon her young shoulders. The arrival of -her uncle brought back the past to her mind. She thought of all that had -happened, with the tears gathering thick in her eyes. Where was _she_ -now that should have had these children in her care? Oh, where was she? -would she never even try to see them, never break her bonds and claim -the rights of nature? How could she give them up--how could she do it? -Or could it be, Rosalind asked herself--or rather did not ask herself, -but in the depths of her heart was aware of the question which came -independent of any will of hers--that there was some reason, some new -conditions, which made the breach in her life endurable, which made the -mother forget her children? The girl’s heart grew sick as she sat thus -thinking, with the tears silently dropping from her eyes, wondering upon -the verge of that dark side of human life in which such mysteries are, -wondering whether it were possible, whether such things could be? - -A faint sound roused her from this preoccupation. She turned her head. -Oh, what was it she saw? The lady of Johnny’s dream had come in while -Rosalind had forgotten her watch, and stood looking at him in his little -bed. Rosalind’s lips opened to cry out, but the cry seemed stifled in -her throat. The spectre, if it were a spectre, half raised the veil that -hung about her head and gazed at the child, stooping forward, her hands -holding the lace in such an attitude that she seemed to bless him as he -lay--a tall figure, all black save for the whiteness of the half-seen -face. Rosalind had risen noiselessly from her chair; she gazed too as if -her eyes would come out of their sockets, but she was behind the curtain -and unseen. Whether it was that her presence diffused some sense of -protection round, or that the child was in a more profound sleep than -usual, it was impossible to tell, but Johnny never moved, and his -visitor stood bending towards him without a breath or sound. Rosalind, -paralyzed in body, overwhelmed in her mind with terror, wonder, -confusion, stood and looked on with sensations beyond description, as if -her whole soul was suspended on the event. Had any one been there to -see, the dark room, with the two ghostly, silent figures in it, -noiseless, absorbed, one watching the other, would have been the -strangest sight. But Rosalind was conscious of nothing save of life -suspended, hanging upon the next movement or sound, and never knew how -long it was that she stood, all power gone from her, watching, scarcely -breathing, unable to speak or think. Then the dark figure turned, and -there seemed to breathe into the air something like a sigh. It was the -only sound; not even the softest footfall on the carpet or rustle of -garments seemed to accompany her movements, slow and reluctant, towards -the doorway. Then she seemed to pause again on the threshold between the -two rooms, within sight of the bed in which Amy lay. Rosalind followed, -feeling herself drawn along by a power not her own, herself as noiseless -as a ghost. The strain upon her was so intense that she was incapable of -feeling, and stood mechanically, her eyes fixed, her heart now -fluttering wildly, now standing still altogether. The moment came, -however, when this tension was too much. Beyond the dark figure in the -doorway she saw, or thought she saw, Amy’s eyes, wild and wide open, -appealing to her from the bed. Her little sister’s anguish of terror and -appeal for help broke the spell and made Rosalind’s suspense -intolerable. She made a wild rush forward, her frozen voice broke forth -in a hoarse cry. She put out her hands and grasped or tried to grasp the -draperies of the mysterious figure; then, as they escaped her, fell -helpless, blind, unable to sustain herself, but not unconscious, by -Amy’s bed, upon the floor. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -Down below, in the garden of the hotel, all was cheerful enough, and -most unlike the existence of any mystery here or elsewhere. The night -was very soft and mild, though dark, the scent of the mignonette in the -air, and most of the inhabitants of the hotel sitting out among the -dark, rustling shrubs and under the twinkling lights, which made -effects, too strong to be called picturesque, of light and shade among -the many groups who were too artificial for pictorial effect, yet made -up a picture like the art of the theatre, effective, striking, full of -brilliant points. The murmur of talk was continuous, softened by the -atmosphere, yet full of laughter and exclamations which were not soft. -High above, the stars were shining in an atmosphere of their own, almost -chill with the purity and remoteness of another world. At some of the -tables the parties were not gay; here and there a silent English couple -sat and looked on, half disapproving, half wistful, with a look in their -eyes that said, how pleasant it must be when people can thus enjoy -themselves, though in all likelihood how wrong! Among these English -observers were Mrs. Lennox and John Trevanion. - -Mrs. Lennox had no hat on, but a light white shawl of lacey texture over -her cap, and her face full in the light. She was in no trouble about -Rosalind’s absence, which she took with perfect calm. The girl had gone, -no doubt, to sit with the children, or she had something to do -up-stairs-- Mrs. Lennox was aware of all the little things a girl has to -do. But she was dull, and did not find John amusing. Mrs. Lennox would -have thought it most unnatural to subject a brother to such criticism in -words, or to acknowledge that it was necessary for him to be amusing to -make his society agreeable. Such an idea would have been a blasphemy -against nature, which, of course, makes the society of one’s brother -always delightful, whether he has or has not anything to say. But -granting this, and that she was, of course, a great deal happier by -John’s side, and that it was delightful to have him again, still she was -a little dull. The conversation flagged, even though she had a great -power of keeping it up by herself when need was; but when you only get -two words in answer to a question which it has taken you five minutes to -ask, the result is discouraging; and she looked round her with a great -desire for some amusement and a considerable envy of the people at the -next table, who were making such a noise! How they laughed, how the -conversation flew on, full of fun evidently, full of wit, no doubt, if -one could only understand. No doubt it is rather an inferior thing to be -French or Russian or whatever they were, and not English; and to enjoy -yourself so much out of doors in public is vulgar perhaps. But still -Mrs. Lennox envied a little while she disapproved, and so did the other -English couple on the other side. Aunt Sophy even had begun to yawn and -to think it would perhaps be better for her rheumatism to go in and get -to bed, when she perceived the familiar figure of young Everard amid -the shadows, looking still more wistfully towards her. She made him a -sign with great alacrity and pleasure, as she was in the habit of doing, -for indeed he joined them every night, or almost every night. When she -had done this, and had drawn a chair towards her for him, then and not -till then Mrs. Lennox suddenly remembered that John might not like it. -That was very true-- John might not like it! What a pity she had not -thought of it sooner? But why shouldn’t John like such a very nice, -friendly, serviceable young man. Men were so strange! they took such -fancies about each other. All this flashed through her mind after she -had made that friendly sign to Everard, and indicated the chair. - -“Is any one coming?” asked John, roused by these movements. - -“Only Mr. Everard, John; he usually comes in the evening--please be -civil to him,” she cried in dismay. - -“Oh, civil!” said John Trevanion; he pushed away his chair almost -violently, with the too rapid reflection, so easily called forth, that -Sophy was a fool and had no thought, and the intention of getting up and -going away. But then he bethought himself that it would be well to see -what sort of fellow this young man was. It would be necessary, he said -to himself sternly, that there should be an explanation before the -intimacy went any further, but, in the meantime, as fortunately Rosalind -was absent (he said this to himself with a forlorn sort of smile at his -former disappointment), it would be a good opportunity to see what was -in him. Accordingly he did not get up as he intended, but only pushed -his chair away, as the young man approached with a hesitating and -somewhat anxious air. John gave him a gruff nod, but said nothing, and -sat by, a grim spectator, taking no part in the conversation, as Mrs. -Lennox broke into eager, but, in consequence of his presence, somewhat -embarrassed and uneasy talk. - -“I thought we were not to see you to-night,” she said. “I thought there -might be something going on, perhaps. We never know what is going on -except when you bring us word, Mr. Everard. I do think, though the Venat -is supposed to be the best hotel, that madame is not at all enterprising -about getting up a little amusement. To be sure, the season is almost -over. I suppose that is the cause.” - -“I don’t think there is anything going on except the usual music and the -weekly dance at the Hotel d’Europe, and--” - -“I think French people are always dancing,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a -little sigh, “or rattling on in that way, laughing and jesting as if -life were all a play. I am sure I don’t know how they keep it up, always -going on like that. But Rosalind does not care for those sort of dances. -Had there been one in our own hotel among people we know-- But I must say -madame is rather remiss: she does not exert herself to provide -amusement. If I came here another year, as I suppose I must, now that I -have begun to have a koor--” - -“Oh, yes, they will keep you to it. This is the second year I have been -made to come. I hope you will be here, Mrs. Lennox, for then I shall be -sure to see you, and--” Here he paused a little and added “the -children,” in a lower voice. - -“It is so nice of you, a young man, to think of the children,” said Aunt -Sophy, gratefully; “but they say it does make you like people when you -have done them a great service. As to meeting us, I hope we shall meet -sooner than that. When you come to England you must--” Here Mrs. Lennox -paused, feeling John’s malign influence by her side, and conscious of a -certain kick of his foot and the suppressed snort with which he puffed -out the smoke of his cigar. She paused; but then she reflected that, -after all, the Elms was her own, and she was not in the habit of -consulting John as to whom she should ask there. And then she went on, -with a voice that trembled slightly, “Come down to Clifton and see me; I -shall be so happy to see you, and I think I know some of your Essex -relations,” Mrs. Lennox said. - -John Trevanion, who had been leaning back with the legs of his chair -tilted in the air, came down upon them with a dint in the gravel, and -thus approached himself nearer to the table in his mingled indignation -at his sister’s foolishness, and eagerness to hear what the young fellow -would find to say. This, no doubt, disturbed the even flow of the -response, making young Everard start. - -“I don’t think I have any relations in Essex,” he said. “You are very -kind. But I have not been in England for some years, and I don’t think I -am very likely to go.” - -“Dear me!” said Mrs. Lennox, “I am very sorry. I hope you have not got -any prejudice against home. Perhaps there is more amusement to be found -abroad, Mr. Everard, and no doubt that tells with young men like you; -but I am sure you will find after a while what the song says, that there -is no place like home.” - -“Oh, no, I have no prejudice,” he said hurriedly. “There are -reasons--family reasons.” Then he added, with what seemed to John, -watching him eagerly, a little bravado, “The only relative I have is -rather what you would call eccentric. She has her own ways of thinking. -She has been ill-used in England, or at least she thinks so, and nothing -will persuade her-- Ladies, you know, sometimes take strange views of -things.” - -“Oh,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I cannot allow you to say anything against -ladies. For my part I think it is men that take strange views. But, my -dear Mr. Everard, because your relative has a prejudice (which is so -very unnatural in a woman), that is not to say that a young man like you -is to be kept from home. Oh, no, you may be sure she doesn’t mean that.” - -“It does seem absurd, doesn’t it?” the young man said. - -“And I would not,” said Aunt Sophy, strong in the sense of superiority -over a woman who could show herself so capricious, “I would not, though -it is very nice of you, and everybody must like you the better for -trying to please her, I would not yield altogether in a matter like -this. For, you know, if you are thinking of public life, or of any way -of distinguishing yourself, you can only do that at home. Besides, I -think it is everybody’s duty to think of their own country first. A tour -like this we are all making is all very well, for six months or even -more. _We_ shall have been nine months away in a day or two, but then I -am having my drains thoroughly looked to, and it was necessary. Six -months is quite enough, and I would not stay abroad for a permanency, -oh! not for anything. Being abroad is very nice, but home--you know what -the song says, there is--Rosalind! Good heavens, what is the matter? It -can’t be Johnny again?” - -Rosalind seemed to rush upon them in a moment, as if she had lighted -down from the skies. Even in the flickering artificial light they could -see that she was as white as her dress and her face drawn and haggard. -She came and stood by the table with her back to all the fluttering -crowd beyond and the light streaming full upon her. “Uncle John,” she -said, “mamma is dead, I have seen her; Amy and I have seen her. You -drove her away, but she has come back to the children. I knew-- I -knew--that sometime she would come back.” - -“Rosalind!” Mrs. Lennox rose, forgetting her rheumatism, and John -Trevanion rushed to the girl and took her into his arms. “My darling, -what is it? You are ill--you have been frightened.” - -She leaned against his arm, supporting herself so, and lifted her pale -face to his. “Mamma is dead, for I have seen her,” Rosalind said. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - - -When Rosalind came to herself she had found little Amy in her white -nightgown standing by her, clinging round her, her pretty hair, all -tumbled and in disorder, hanging about the cheeks which were pressed -against her sister’s, wet with tears. For a moment they said nothing to -each other. Rosalind raised herself from her entire prostration and sat -on the carpet holding Amy in her arms. They clung to each other, two -hearts beating, two young souls full of anguish, yet exaltation; they -were raised above all that was round them, above the common strain of -speech and thought. The first words that Rosalind said were very low. - -“Amy, did you see her?” - -“Oh, yes, yes, Rosalind!” - -“Did you know her?” - -“Yes, Rosalind.” - -“Have you seen her before?” - -“Oh, every night!” - -“Amy, and you never said it was mamma!” - -They trembled both as if a blast of wind had passed over them, and -clasped each other closer. Was it Rosalind that had become a child again -and Amy that was the woman? She whispered, with her lips on her sister’s -cheek, - -“How was I to tell? She came to me--to me and Johnny. We belong to her, -Rosalind.” - -“And not I!” the girl exclaimed, with a great cry. Then she recovered -herself, that thought being too keen to pass without effect. - -“Amy! you are hers without her choice, but she took me of her own will -to be her child; I belong to her almost more than you. Oh, not more, not -more, Amy! but you were so little you did not know her like me.” - -Little Amy recognized at last that in force of feeling she was not her -sister’s equal, and for a time they were both silent. Then the child -asked, looking round her with a wild and frightened glance, “Rosalind, -must mamma be dead?” - -This question roused them both to a terror and panic such as in the -first emotion and wonder they had not been conscious of. Instead of love -came fear; they had been raised above that tremor of the flesh, but now -it came upon them in a horror not to be put aside. Even Rosalind, who -was old enough to take herself to task, felt with a painful thrill that -she had stood by something that was not flesh and blood, and in the -intensity of the shuddering terror forgot her nobler yearning sympathy -and love. They crept together to the night-lamp and lit the candles from -it, and closed all the doors, shrinking from the dark curtains and -shadows in the corners as if spectres might be lurking there. They had -lit up the room thus when nurse returned from her evening’s relaxation -down-stairs, cheerful but tired, and ready to go to bed. She stood -holding up her head and gazing at them with eyes of amazement. “Lord, -Miss Rosalind, what’s the matter? You’ll wake the children up,” she -cried. - -“Oh, it is nothing, nurse. Amy was awake,” said Rosalind, trembling. “We -thought the light would be more cheering.” Her voice shook so that she -could with difficulty articulate the words. - -“And did you think, Miss Rosalind, that the child could ever go to sleep -with all that light; and telling her stories, and putting things in her -head? I don’t hold with exciting them when it is their bedtime. It may -not matter so much for a lady that comes in just now and then, but for -the nurse as is always with them-- And children are tiresome at the best -of times. No one knows how tiresome they are but those that have to do -for them day and night.” - -“We did not mean to vex you. We were very sad, Amy and I; we were -unhappy, thinking of our mother,” said Rosalind, trying to say the words -firmly, “whom we have lost.” - -“Oh, Rosalind, do you think so too?” cried Amy, flinging herself into -her sister’s arms. - -Rosalind took her up trembling and carried her to bed. The tears had -begun to come, and the terrible iron hand that had seemed to press upon -her heart relaxed a little. She kissed the child with quivering lips. “I -think it must be so,” she said. “We will say our prayers, and ask God, -if there is anything she wants us to do, to show us what it is.” -Rosalind’s lips quivered so that she had to stop to subdue herself, to -make her voice audible. “Now she is dead, she can come back to us. We -ought to be glad. Why should we be frightened for poor mamma? She could -not come back to us living, but now, when she is dead--” - -“Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse, “I don’t know what you are saying, but -you will put the child off her sleep and she won’t close an eye all the -night.” - -“Amy, that would grieve mamma,” said the girl. “We must not do anything -to vex her now that she has come back.” - -And so strong is nature and so weak is childhood, that Amy, wearied and -soothed and comforted, with Rosalind’s voice in her ears and the -cheerful light within sight, did drop to sleep, sobbing, before half an -hour was out. Then Rosalind bathed the tears from her eyes, and, -hurrying through the long passages with that impulse to tell her tale to -some one which to the simple soul is a condition of life, appeared -suddenly in her exaltation and sorrow amid all the noisy groups in the -hotel garden. Her head was light with tears and suffering, she scarcely -felt the ground she trod upon, or realized what was about her. Her only -distinct feeling was that which she uttered with such conviction, -leaning her entire weight on Uncle John’s kind arm and lifting her -colorless face to his--“Mamma is dead; and she has come back to the -children.” How natural it seemed! the only thing to be expected; but -Mrs. Lennox gave a loud cry and fell back in her chair, in what she -supposed to be a faint, good woman, having happily little experience. It -was now that young Everard justified her good opinion of him. He soothed -her back out of this half-faint, and, supporting her on his arm, led her -up-stairs. “I will see to her; you will be better alone,” he said, as he -passed the other group. Even John Trevanion, when he had time to think -of it, felt that it was kind, and Aunt Sophy never forgot the touching -attention he showed to her, calling her maid, and bringing her -eau-de-cologne after he had placed her on the sofa. “He might have been -my son,” Mrs. Lennox said; “no nephew was ever so kind.” But when he -came out of the room, and stood outside in the lighted corridor, there -was nothing tender in the young man’s face. It was pale with passion and -a cruel force. He paused for a moment to collect himself, and then, -turning along a long passage and up another staircase, made his way, -with the determined air of a man who has a desperate undertaking in -hand, to an apartment with which he was evidently well acquainted, on -the other side of the house. - - - - -CHAPTER L. - - -The Hotel Venat that night closed its doors upon many anxious and -troubled souls. A certain agitation seemed to have crept through the -house itself. The landlady was disturbed in her bureau, moving about -restlessly, giving short answers to the many inquirers who came to know -what was the matter. “What is there, do you ask?” she said, stretching -out her plump hands, “there is nothing! there is that mademoiselle, the -young _Anglaise_, has an _attaque des nerfs_. Nothing could be more -simple. The reason I know not. Is it necessary to inquire? An affair of -the heart! _Les Anglaises_ have two or three in a year. Mademoiselle has -had a disappointment. The uncle has come to interfere, and she has a -seizure. I do not blame her; it is the weapon of a young girl. What has -she else, _pauvre petite_, to avenge herself?” - -“But, madame, they say that something has been seen--a ghost, a--” - -“There are no ghosts in my house,” the indignant landlady said; and her -tone was so imperious and her brow so lowering that the timid -questioners scattered in all directions. The English visitors were not -quite sure what an _attaque des nerfs_ was. It was not a “nervous -attack;” it was something not to be defined by English terms. English -ladies do not have hysterics nowadays; they have neuralgia, which -answers something of the same purpose, but then neuralgia has no sort of -connection with ghosts. - -In Mrs. Lennox’s sitting-room up-stairs, which was so well lighted, so -fully occupied, with large windows opening upon the garden, and white -curtains fluttering at the open windows, a very agitated group was -assembled. Mrs. Lennox was seated at a distance from the table, with her -white handkerchief in her hand, with which now and then she wiped off a -few tears. Sometimes she would throw a word into the conversation that -was going on, but for the most part confined herself to passive -remonstrances and appeals, lifting up now her hands, now her eyes, to -heaven. It was half because she was so overcome by her feelings that -Mrs. Lennox took so little share in what was going on, and half because -her brother had taken the management of this crisis off her hands. She -did not think that he showed much mastery of the situation, but she -yielded it to him with a great and consolatory consciousness that, -whatever should now happen, _she_ could not be held as the person to -blame. - -Rosalind’s story was that which the reader already knows, with the -addition of another extracted from little Amy, who had one of those -wonderful tales of childish endurance and silence which seem scarcely -credible, yet occur so often, to tell. For many nights past, Amy, -clinging to her sister, with her face hidden on Rosalind’s shoulder, -declared that she had seen the same figure steal in. She had never -clearly seen the face, but the child had been certain from the first -that it was mamma. Mamma had gone to Johnny first, and then had come to -her own little bed, where she stood for a moment before she disappeared. -Johnny’s outcry had been always, Amy said, after the figure disappeared, -but she had seen it emerge from out of the dimness, and glide away, and -by degrees this mystery had become the chief incident in her life. All -this Rosalind repeated with tremulous eloquence; and excitement, as she -stood before the two elder people, on her defence. - -“But I saw her, Uncle John; what argument can be so strong as that? You -have been moving about, you have not got your letters; and -perhaps--perhaps--” cried Rosalind with tears--“perhaps it has happened -only now, only to-night. A woman who was far from her children might -come and see them--and see them,” she struggled to say through her sobs, -“on her way to heaven.” - -“Oh, Rosalind! it is a fortnight since it begun,” Mrs. Lennox said. - -“Do people die in a moment?” cried Rosalind. “She may have been dying -all this time; and perhaps when they thought her wandering in her mind -it might be that she was here. Oh, my mother; who would watch over her, -who would be taking care of her? and me so far away!” - -John Trevanion sprang from his chair. It was intolerable to sit there -and listen and feel the contagion of this excitement, which was so -irrational, so foolish, gain his own being. Women take a pleasure in -their own anguish, which a man cannot bear. “Rosalind,” he cried, “this -is too terrible, you know. I cannot stand it if you can; I tell you, if -anything had happened, I must have heard. All this is simply impossible. -You have all got out of order, the children first, and their fancies -have acted upon you.” - -“It is their digestion, I always said so--or gout in the system,” said -Aunt Sophy, lifting her handkerchief to her eyes. - -“It is derangement of the brain, I think,” said John. “I see I must get -you out of here; one of you has infected the other. Come, Rosalind, you -have so much sense--let us see you make use of it.” - -“Uncle John, what has sense to do with it? I have seen her,” Rosalind -said. - -“This is madness, Rosalind.” - -“What is madness? Are my eyes mad that saw mamma? I was not thinking of -seeing her. In a moment I lifted up my eyes, and she was there. Is it -madness that she should die? Oh no, more wonderful how she can live; or -madness to think that her heart would fly to us--oh, like an arrow, the -moment it was free?” - -“Rosalind,” said Mrs. Lennox, “poor Grace was a very religious woman; at -that moment she would be thinking about her Maker.” - -“Do you think she would be afraid of him?” cried Rosalind, “afraid that -our Lord would be jealous, that he would not like her to love her -children? Oh, that’s not what my mother thought! My religion is what I -got from her. She was not afraid of him--she loved him. She would know -that he would let her come, perhaps bring her and stand by her; -perhaps,” the girl cried, clasping her hands, “if I had been better, -more religious, more like my mother, I should have seen him in the room -too.” - -John Trevanion seized her hands almost fiercely. Short of giving up his -own self-control, and yielding to this stormy tide of emotion, it was -the only thing he could do. “I must have an end of this,” he said. -“Rosalind, you must be calm--we shall all go distracted if you continue -so. She was a good woman, as Sophy says. She never could, I don’t -believe it, have gratified herself at your expense like this. I shall -telegraph the first thing in the morning to the lawyers, to know if they -have any news. Will that satisfy you? Suspend your judgment till I hear; -if then it turns out that there is any cause--” Here his voice broke and -yielded to the strain of emotion; upon which Rosalind, whose face had -been turned away, rose up suddenly and flung herself upon him as Amy had -done upon her, crying, “Oh, my mother! oh, my mother! you loved her too, -Uncle John.” - -Thus the passion of excited feeling extended itself. For a moment John -Trevanion sobbed too, and the girl felt, with a sensation of awe which -calmed her, the swelling of the man’s breast. He put her down in her -chair next moment with a tremulous smile. “No more, Rosalind--we must -not all lose our senses. I promise you if there is any truth in your -imagination you shall not want my sympathy. But I am sure you are -exciting yourself unnecessarily; I know I should have heard had there -been anything wrong. My dear, no more now.” - -Next morning John Trevanion was early astir. He had slept little, and -his mind was full of cares. In the light of the morning he felt a little -ashamed of the agitation of last night, and of the credulity to which he -himself had been drawn by Rosalind’s excitement. He said to himself that -no doubt it was in the imagination of little Amy that the whole myth had -arisen. The child had been sleepless, as children often are, and no -doubt she had formed to herself that spectre out of the darkness which -sympathy and excitement and solitude had embodied to Rosalind also. -Nothing is more contagious than imagination. He had himself been all but -overpowered by Rosalind’s impassioned certainty. He had felt his own -firmness waver; how much more was an emotional girl likely to waver, who -did not take into account the tangle of mental workings even in a child? -As he came out into the cool morning air it all seemed clear enough and -easy; but the consequences were not easy, nor how he was to break the -spell, and recall the visionary child and the too sympathetic girl to -practical realities, and dissipate these fancies out of their heads. He -was not very confident in his own powers; he thought they were quite as -likely to overcome him as he to restore them to composure. But still -something must be done, and the scene changed at least. As he came along -the corridor from his room, with a sense of being the only person waking -in this part of the house, though the servants had long been stirring -below, his ear was caught by a faint, quick sound, and a whispering call -from the apartment occupied by his sister. He looked round quickly, -fearful, as one is in a time of agitation, of every new sound, and saw -another actor in the little drama, one whose name had not yet been so -much as mentioned as taking any part in it--the sharp, inquisitive, -matter-of-fact little Sophy, who was the one of the children he liked -least. Sophy made energetic gestures to stop him, and with elaborate -precaution came out of her room attired in a little dressing-gown of -blue flannel, with bare feet in slippers, and her hair hanging over her -shoulders. He stood still in the passage with great impatience while she -elaborately closed the door behind her, and came towards him on her -toes, with an evident enjoyment of the mystery. “Oh, Uncle John! hush, -don’t make any noise,” Sophy said. - -“Is that all you want to tell me?” he asked severely. - -“No, Uncle John; but we must not wake these poor things, they are all -asleep. I want to tell you--do you think we are safe here and nobody can -hear us? Please go back to your room. If any one were to come and see -me, in bare feet and my dressing-gown--” - -He laughed somewhat grimly, indeed with a feeling that he would like to -whip this important little person; but Sophy detected no under-current -of meaning. She cried “Hush!” again, with the most imperative energy, -under her breath, and swinging by his arm drew him back to his room, -which threw a ray of morning sunshine down the passage from its open -door. The man was a little abashed by the entrance of this feminine -creature, though she was but thirteen, especially as she gave a quick -glance round of curiosity and sharp inspection. “What an awfully big -sponge, and what a lot of boots you have!” she said quickly. “Uncle -John! they say one ought never to watch or listen or anything of that -sort; but when everybody was in such a state last night, how do you -think I could just stay still in bed? I saw that lady come out of the -children’s room, Uncle John.” - -The child, though her eyes were dancing with excitement and the delight -of meddling, and the importance of what she had to say, began at this -point to change color, to grow red and then pale. - -“You! I did not think you were the sort of person, Sophy--” - -“Oh, wait a little, Uncle John! To see ghosts you were going to say. But -that is just the mistake. I knew all the time it was a real lady. I -don’t know how I knew. I just found out, out of my own head.” - -“A real lady! I don’t know, Sophy, what you mean.” - -“Oh, but you do, it is quite simple. It is no ghost, it is a real lady, -as real as any one. I stood at the door and saw her come out. She went -quite close past me, and I felt her things, and they were as real as -mine. She makes no noise because she is so light and thin. Besides, -there are no ghosts,” said Sophy. “If she had been a ghost she would -have known I was there, and she never did, never found me out though I -felt her things. She had a great deal of black lace on,” the girl added, -not without meaning, though it was a meaning altogether lost upon John -Trevanion. Though she was so cool and practical, her nerves were all in -commotion. She could not keep still; her eyes, her feet, her fingers, -all were quivering. She made a dart aside to his dressing-table. “What -big, big brushes--and no handles to them! Why is everything a gentleman -has so big? though you have so little hair. Her shoes were of that soft -kind without any heels to them, and she made no noise. Uncle John!” - -“This is a very strange addition to the story, Sophy. I am obliged to -you for telling me. It was no imagination, then, but somebody, who for -some strange motive-- I am very glad you had so much sense, not to be -deceived.” - -“Uncle John!” Sophy said. She did not take any notice of this applause, -as in other circumstances she would have done; everything about her -twitched and trembled, her eyes seemed to grow large like Amy’s. She -could not stand still. “Uncle John!” - -“What is it, Sophy? You have something more to say.” - -The child’s eyes filled with tears. So sharp they were, and keen, that -this liquid medium seemed inappropriate to their eager curiosity and -brightness. She grew quite pale, her lips quivered a little. “Uncle -John!” she said again, with an hysterical heave of her bosom, “I think -it is mamma.” - -“Sophy!” He cried out with such a wildness of exclamation that she -started with fright, and those hot tears dropped out of her eyes. -Something in her throat choked her. She repeated, in a stifled, broken -voice, “I am sure it is mamma.” - -“Sophy! you must have some reason for saying this. What is it? Don’t -tell me half, but everything. What makes you think--?” - -“Oh, I don’t think at all,” cried the child. “Why should I think? I saw -her. I would not tell the others or say anything, because it would harm -us all, wouldn’t it, Uncle John? but I know it is mamma.” - -He seized her by the shoulder in hot anger and excitement. “You -little--! Could you think of that when you saw your mother--if it is -your mother? but that’s impossible. And you can’t be such a little--such -a demon as you make yourself out.” - -“You never said that to any one else,” cried Sophy, bursting into tears; -“it was Rex that told me. He said we should lose all our money if mamma -came back. We can’t live without our money, can we, Uncle John? Other -people may take care of us, and--all that. But if we had no money what -would become of us? Rex told me. He said that was why mamma went away.” - -John Trevanion gazed at the little girl in her precocious wisdom with a -wonder for which he could find no words. Rex, too, that fresh and manly -boy, so admirable an example of English youth; to think of these two -young creatures talking it over, coming to their decision! He forgot -even the strange light, if it were a light, which she had thrown upon -the events of the previous evening, in admiration and wonder at this, -which was more wonderful. At length he said, with perhaps a tone of -satire too fine for Sophy, “As you are the only person who possesses -this information, Sophy, what do you propose to do?” - -“Do?” she said, looking at him with startled eyes; “I am not going to do -anything, Uncle John. I thought I would tell you--” - -“And put the responsibility on my shoulders? Yes, I understand that. But -you cannot forget what you have seen. If your mother, as you think, is -in the house, what shall you do?” - -“Oh, Uncle John,” said Sophy, pale with alarm. “I have not really, -really seen her, if that is what you mean. She only just passed where I -was standing. No one could punish me just for having seen her pass.” - -“I think you are a great philosopher, my dear,” he said. - -At this, Sophy looked very keenly at him, and deriving no satisfaction -from the expression of his face, again began to cry. “You are making fun -of me, Uncle John,” she said. “You would not laugh like that if it had -been Rosalind. You always laugh at us children whatever we may say.” - -“I have no wish to laugh, Sophy, I assure you. If your aunt or some one -wakes and finds you gone from your bed, how shall you explain it?” - -“Oh, I shall tell her that I was-- I know what I shall tell her,” Sophy -said, recovering herself; “I am not such a silly as that.” - -“You are not silly at all, my dear. I wish you were not half so clever,” -said John. He turned away with a sick heart. Sophy and those -unconscious, terrible revelations of hers were more than the man could -bear. The air was fresh outside, the day was young; he seemed to have -come out of an oppressive atmosphere of age and sophistication, -calculating prudence and artificial life, when he left the child behind -him. He was so much overwhelmed by Sophy that for the moment, he did -not fully realize the importance of what she had told him, and it was -not till he had walked some distance, and reconciled himself to nature -in the still brightness of the morning, that he awoke with a sudden -sensation which thrilled through and through him to the meaning of what -the little girl had said. Her mother--was it possible? no ghost, but a -living woman. This was indeed a solution of the problem which he had -never thought of. At first, after Madam’s sudden departure from -Highcourt, John Trevanion went nowhere without a sort of vague -expectation of meeting her suddenly, in some quite inappropriate -place--on a railway, in a hotel. But now, after years had passed, he had -no longer that expectation. The world is so small, as it is the common -vulgarity of the moment to say, but nevertheless the world is large -enough to permit people who have lost each other in life to drift apart, -never to meet, to wander about almost within sight of each other, yet -never cross each other’s paths. He had not thought of that--he could -scarcely give any faith to it now. It seemed too natural, too probable -to have happened. And yet it was not either natural or probable that -Mrs. Trevanion, such as he had known her, a woman so self-restrained, so -long experienced in the act of subduing her own impulses, should risk -the health of her children and shatter their nerves by secret visits -that looked like those of a supernatural being. It was impossible to him -to think this of her. She who had not hesitated to sacrifice herself -entirely to their interests once, would she be so forgetful now? And -yet, a mother hungering for the sight of her children’s faces, severed -from them, without hope, was she to be judged by ordinary rules? Was -there any expedient which she might not be pardoned for taking--any -effort which she might not make to see them once more? - -The immediate question, however, was what to do. He could not insist -upon carrying the party away, which was his first idea; for various -visitors were already on their way to join them, and it would be cruel -to interrupt the “koor” which Mrs. Lennox regarded with so much hope. -The anxious guardian did as so many anxious guardians have done -before--he took refuge in a compromise. Before he returned to the hotel -he had hired one of the many villas in the neighborhood, the white board -with the inscription _à louer_ coming to him like a sudden inspiration. -Whether the appearance which had disturbed them was of this world or of -another, the change must be beneficial. - -The house stood upon a wooded height, which descended with its fringe of -trees to the very edge of the water, and commanded the whole beautiful -landscape, the expanse of the lake answering to every change of the sky, -the homely towers of Hautecombe opposite, the mountains on either side, -reflected in the profound blue mirror underneath. Within this enclosure -no one could make a mysterious entry; no one, at least, clothed in -ordinary flesh and blood. To his bewildered mind it was the most -grateful relief to escape thus from the dilemma before him; and in any -case he must gain time for examination and thought. - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - - -Mrs. Lennox was struck dumb with amazement when she heard what her -brother’s morning’s occupation had been. “Taken a house!” she cried, -with a scream which summoned the whole party round her. But presently -she consoled herself, and found it the best step which possibly could -have been taken. It was a pretty place; and she could there complete her -“koor” without let or hinderance. The other members of the party adapted -themselves to it with the ease of youth; but there were many protests on -the part of the people in the hotel; and to young Everard the news at -first seemed fatal. He could not understand how it was that he met none -of the party during the afternoon. In ordinary circumstances he crossed -their path two or three times at least, and by a little strategy could -make sure of being in Rosalind’s company for a considerable part of -every day, having, indeed, come to consider himself, and being generally -considered, as one of Mrs. Lennox’s habitual train. He thought at first -that they had gone away altogether, and his despair was boundless. But -very soon the shock was softened, and better things began to appear -possible. Next day he met Mrs. Lennox going to her bath, and not only -did she stop to explain everything to him, and tell him all about the -new house, which was so much nicer than the hotel, but, led away by her -own flood of utterance, and without thinking what John would say, she -invited him at once to dinner. - -“Dinner is rather a weak point,” she said, “but there is something to -eat always, if you don’t mind taking your chance.” - -“I would not mind, however little there might be,” he said, beaming. “I -thought you had gone away, and I was in despair.” - -“Oh, no,” Mrs. Lennox said. But then she began to think what John would -say. - -John did not say very much when, in the early dusk, Everard, in all the -glories of evening dress, made his appearance in the drawing-room at -Bonport, which was furnished with very little except the view. But then -the view was enough to cover many deficiencies. The room was rounded, -almost the half of the wall being window, which was filled at all times, -when there was light enough to see it, with one of those prospects of -land and water which never lose their interest, and which take as many -variations, as the sun rises and sets upon them, and the clouds and -shadows flit over them, and the light pours out of the skies, as does an -expressive human face. The formation of the room aided the effect by -making this wonderful scene the necessary background of everything that -occurred within; in that soft twilight the figures were as shadows -against the brightness which still lingered upon the lake. John -Trevanion stood against it, black in his height and massive outline, -taking the privilege of his manhood and darkening for the others the -remnant of daylight that remained. Mrs. Lennox’s chair had been placed -in a corner, as she liked it to be, out of what she called the draught, -and all that appeared of her was one side of a soft heap, a small -mountain, of drapery; while on the other hand, Rosalind, slim and -straight, a soft whiteness, appeared against the trellis of the veranda. -The picture was all in shadows, uncertain, visionary, save for the -outline of John Trevanion, which was very solid and uncompromising, and -produced a great effect amid the gentle vagueness of all around. The -young man faltered on the threshold at sight of him, feeling none of the -happy, sympathetic security which he had felt in the company of the -ladies and the children. Young Everard was in reality too ignorant of -society and its ways to have thought of the inevitable interviews with -guardians and investigations into antecedents which would necessarily -attend any possible engagement with a girl in Rosalind’s position. But -there came a cold shiver over him when he saw the man’s figure opposite -to him as he entered, and a prevision of an examination very different -from anything he had calculated upon came into his mind. For a moment -the impulse of flight seized him; but that was impossible, and however -terrible the ordeal might be it was evident that he must face it. It was -well for him, however, that it was so dark that the changes of his color -and hesitation of his manner were not so visible as they would otherwise -have been. Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that he was shy--perhaps even more -shy than usual from the fact that John was not so friendly as, in view -of what Mr. Everard had done for the children, he ought to have been. -And she did her best accordingly to encourage the visitor. The little -interval before dinner, in the twilight, when they could not see each -other, was naturally awkward, and, except by herself, little was said; -but she had a generally well-justified faith in the effect of dinner as -a softening and mollifying influence. When, however, the party were -seated in the dining-room round the shaded lamp, which threw a -brilliant light on the table, and left the faces round it in a sort of -pink shadow, matters were little better than before. The undesired -guest, who had not self-confidence enough to appear at his ease, -attempted, after a while, to entertain Mrs. Lennox with scraps of gossip -from the hotel, though always in a deprecating tone and with an -apologetic humility; but this conversation went on strangely in the -midst of an atmosphere hushed by many agitations, where the others were -kept silent by thoughts and anxieties too great for words. John -Trevanion, who could scarcely contain himself or restrain his -inclination to take this young intruder by the throat and compel him to -explain who he was, and what he did here, and Rosalind, who had looked -with incredulous apathy at the telegram her uncle had received from Mrs. -Trevanion’s lawyers, informing him that nothing had happened to her, so -far as they were aware, sat mute, both of them, listening to the mild -chatter without taking any part in it. Mrs. Lennox wagged, if not her -head, at least the laces of her cap, as she discussed the company at -the _table d’hôte_. “And these people were Russians, after all?” she -said. “Why, I thought them English, and you remember Rosalind and you, -Mr. Everard, declared they must be German; and all the time they were -Russians. How very odd! And it was the little man who was the lady’s -husband! Well, I never should have guessed that. Yes, I knew our going -away would make a great gap--so many of us, you know. But we have got -some friends coming. Do you mean to take rooms at the Venat for Mr. -Rivers, John? And then there is Roland Hamerton--” - -“Is Roland Hamerton coming here?” - -“With Rex, I think. Oh, yes, he is sure to come--he is great friends -with Rex. I am so glad the boy should have such a steady, nice friend. -But we cannot take him in at Bonport, and of course he never would -expect such a thing. Perhaps you will mention at the bureau, Mr. -Everard, that some friends of mine will be wanting rooms.” - -“I had no idea,” said John, with a tone of annoyance, “that so large a -party was expected.” - -“Rex?” said Mrs. Lennox, with simple audacity. “Well, I hope you don’t -think I could refuse our own boy when he wanted to come.” - -“He ought to have been at school,” the guardian grumbled under his -breath. - -“John! when you agreed yourself he was doing no good at school; and the -masters said so, and everybody. And he is too young to go to Oxford; and -whatever you may think, John, I am very glad to know that a nice, good, -steady young man like Roland Hamerton has taken such a fancy to Rex. Oh, -yes, he has taken a great fancy to him--he is staying with him now. It -shows that though the poor boy may be a little wilful, he is thoroughly -nice in his heart. Though even without that,” said Mrs. Lennox, ready to -weep, “I should always be glad to see Roland Hamerton, shouldn’t you, -Rosalind? He is always good and kind, and we have known him, and -Rosalind has known him, all his life.” - -Rosalind made no reply to this appeal. She was in no mood to say -anything, to take any part in common conversation. Her time of peace and -repose was over. If there had been nothing else, the sudden information -only now conveyed to her of the coming of Rivers and of Hamerton, with -what motive she knew too well, would have been enough to stop her mouth. -She heard this with a thrill of excitement, of exasperation, and at the -same time of alarm, which is far from the state of mind supposed by the -visionary philosopher to whom it seems meet that a good girl should have -seven suitors. Above all, the name of Rivers filled her with alarm. He -was a man who was a stranger, who would insist upon an answer, and -probably think himself ill-used if that answer was not favorable. With -so many subjects of thought already weighing upon her, to have this -added made her brain swim. And when she looked up and caught, from the -other side of the table, a wistful gaze from those eyes which had so -long haunted her imagination, Rosalind’s dismay was complete. She shrank -into herself with a troubled consciousness that all the problems of life -were crowding upon her, and at a moment when she had little heart to -consider any personal question at all, much less such a one as this. - -The party round the dinner-table was thus a very agitated one, and by -degrees less and less was said. The movements of the servants--Mrs. -Lennox’s agile courier and John Trevanion’s solemn English attendant, -whose face was like wood--became very audible, the chief action of the -scene. To Everard the silence, broken only by these sounds and by Mrs. -Lennox’s voice coming in at intervals, was as the silence of fate. He -made exertions which were really stupendous to find something to say, to -seize the occasion and somehow divert the catastrophe which, though he -did not know what it would be, he felt to be hanging over his head; but -his throat was dry and his lips parched, notwithstanding the wine which -he swallowed in his agitation, and not a word would come. When the -ladies rose to leave the table, he felt that the catastrophe was very -near. He was paralyzed by their sudden movement, which he had not -calculated upon, and had not even presence of mind to open the door for -them as he ought to have done, but stood gazing with his mouth open and -his napkin in his hand, to find himself alone and face to face with John -Trevanion. He had not thought of this terrible ordeal. In the hotel life -to which he had of late been accustomed, the awful interval after dinner -is necessarily omitted, and Everard had not been brought up in a society -which sits over its wine. When he saw John Trevanion bearing down upon -him with his glass of wine in his hand, to take Mrs. Lennox’s place, he -felt that he did not know to what trial this might be preliminary, and -turned towards his host with a sense of danger and terror which nothing -in the circumstances seemed to justify, restraining with an effort the -gasp in his throat. John began, innocently enough, by some remark about -the wine. It was very tolerable wine, better than might have been -expected in a country overrun by visitors. “But I suppose the strangers -will be going very soon, as I hear the season is nearly over. Have you -been long here?” - -“A month--six weeks I mean--since early in August.” - -“And did you come for the ‘cure’? You must have taken a double -allowance.” - -“It was not exactly for the cure; at least I have stayed on--for other -reasons.” - -“Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,” said John Trevanion. “It was you, was -it not, whom I met in the village at Highcourt two years ago?” - -“Yes, it was I.” - -“That was a very unlikely place to meet; more unlikely than Aix. I must -ask your pardon again, Mr. Everard; you will allow that when I find you -here, almost a member of my sister’s family, I have a right to inquire. -Do you know that there were very unpleasant visitors at Highcourt in -search of you after you were gone?” - -The young man looked at him with eyes expanding and dilating--where had -he seen such eyes?--a deep crimson flush, and a look of such terror and -anguish that John Trevanion’s good heart was touched. He had anticipated -a possible bravado of denial, which would have given him no difficulty, -but this was much less easy to deal with. - -“Mr. Trevanion,” Everard said, with lips so parched that he to moisten -them before he could speak, “that was a mistake, it was indeed! That was -all arranged; you would not put me to shame for a thing so long past, -and that was entirely a mistake! It was put right in every way, every -farthing was paid. A great change happened to me at that time of my -life. I had been kept out of what I had a right to, and badly treated. -But after that a change occurred. I can assure you, and the people -themselves would tell you. I can give their address.” - -“I should not have spoken to you on the subject if I had not been -disposed to accept any explanation you could make,” said John Trevanion; -which was but partially true so far as his intention went, although it -was impossible to doubt an explanation which was so evidently sincere. -After this there ensued a silence, during which Everard, the excitement -in his mind growing higher and higher, turned over every subject on -which he thought it possible that he could be questioned further. He -thought, as he sat there drawn together on his defence, eagerly yet -stealthily examining the countenance of this inquisitor, that he had -thought of everything and could not be taken by surprise. Nevertheless -his heart gave a great bound of astonishment when John Trevanion spoke -again. The question he put was perhaps the only one for which the victim -was unprepared. “Would you mind telling me,” he said, with great gravity -and deliberation, “what connection there was between you and my brother, -the late Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt?” - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - - -The moon was shining in full glory upon the lake, so brilliant and broad -that the great glittering expanse of water retained something like a -tinge of its natural blue in the wonderful splendor of the light. It was -not a night on which to keep in-doors. Mrs. Lennox, in the drawing-room, -after she had left her _protégé_ to the tender mercies of John, had been -a little hysterical, or, at least, as she allowed, very much “upset.” “I -don’t know what has come over John,” she said; “I think his heart is -turned to stone. Oh, Rosalind, how could you keep so still? You that -have such a feeling for the children, and saw the way that poor young -fellow was being bullied. It is a thing I will not put up with in my -house--if it can be said that this is my house. Yes, bullied. John has -never said a word to him! And I am sure he is going to make himself -disagreeable now, and when there is nobody to protect him--and he is so -good and quiet and takes it all so well,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a great -confusion of persons, “for our sakes.” - -Rosalind did her best to soothe and calm her aunt’s excitement, and at -last succeeded in persuading her that she was very tired, and had much -better go to bed. “Oh, yes, I am very tired. What with my bath, and the -trouble of removing down here, and having to think of the dinners, and -all this trouble about Johnny and Amy, and your uncle that shows so -little feeling--of course, I am very tired. Most people would have been -in bed an hour ago. If you think you can remember my message to poor Mr. -Everard: to tell him never to mind John; that it is just his way and -nobody takes any notice of it; and say good-night to him for me. But you -know you have a very bad memory, Rosalind, and you will never tell him -the half of that.” - -“If I see him, Aunt Sophy; but he may not come in here at all.” - -“Oh, you may trust him to come in,” Aunt Sophy said; and with a renewed -charge not to forget, she finally rang for her maid, and went away, with -all her little properties, to bed. Rosalind did not await the interview -which Mrs. Lennox was so certain of. She stole out of the window, which -stood wide open like a door, into the moonlight. Everything was so still -that the movements of the leaves, as they rustled faintly, took -importance in the great quiet; and the dip of an oar into the water, -which took place at slow intervals, somewhere about the middle of the -lake, where some romantic visitors were out in the moonlight, was almost -a violent interruption. Rosalind stepped out into the soft night with a -sense of escape, not thinking much perhaps of the messages with which -she had been charged. The air was full of that faint but all-pervading -fragrance made up of odors, imperceptible in themselves, which belong to -the night, and the moon made everything sacred, spreading a white -beatitude even over the distant peaks of the hills. The girl, in her -great trouble and anxiety, felt soothed and stilled, without any reason, -by those ineffable ministrations of nature which are above all rule. She -avoided the gravel, which rang and jarred under her feet, and wandered -across the dry grass, which was burned brown with the heat, not like the -verdant English turf, towards the edge of the slope. She had enough to -think of, but, for the moment, in the hush of the night, did not think -at all, but gave herself over to the tranquillizing calm. Her cares went -from her for the time; the light and the night together went to her -heart. Sometimes this quiet will come unsought to those who are deeply -weighted with pain and anxiety; and Rosalind was very young; and when -all nature says it so unanimously, how is a young creature to -contradict, and say that all will not be well? Even the old and weary -will be deceived, and take that on the word of the kind skies and -hushed, believing earth. She strayed about among the great laurels and -daphnes, under the shadow of the trees, with her spirit calmed and -relieved from the pressure of troublous events and thoughts. She had -forgotten, in that momentary exaltation, that any interruption was -possible, and stood, clearly visible in the moonlight, looking out upon -the lake, when she heard the sound behind her of an uncertain step -coming out upon the veranda, then, crossing the gravel path, coming -towards her. She had not any thought of concealing herself, nor had she -time to do so, when Everard came up to her, breathless with haste, and -what seemed to be excitement. He said quickly, “You were not in the -drawing-room, and the window was open. I thought you would not mind if I -came after you.” Rosalind looked up at him somewhat coldly, for she had -forgotten he was there. - -“I thought you had gone,” she said, turning half towards him, as -if--which was true--she did not mean to be disturbed. His presence had a -jarring effect, and broke the enchantment of the scene. He was always -instantly sensitive to any rebuff. - -“I thought,” he repeated apologetically, “that you would not mind. You -have always made me feel so much--so much at home.” - -These ill-chosen words roused Rosalind’s pride. “My aunt,” she said, -“has always been very glad to see you, Mr. Everard, and grateful to you -for what you have done for us.” - -“Is that all?” he said hastily; “am I always to have those children -thrown in my teeth? I thought now, by this time, that you might have -cared for me a little for myself; I thought we had taken to each other,” -he added, with a mixture of irritation and pathos, with the -straightforward sentiment of a child; “for you know very well,” he -cried, after a pause, “that it is not for nothing I am always coming; -that it is not for the children, nor for your aunt, nor for anything but -you. You know that I think of nothing but you.” - -The young man’s voice was hurried and tremulous with real feeling, and -the scene was one, above all others, in harmony with a love tale; and -Rosalind’s heart had been touched by many a soft illusion in respect to -the speaker, and had made him, before she knew him, the subject of many -a dream; but at this supreme moment a strange effect took place in her. -With a pang, acute as if it had been cut off by a blow, the mist of -illusion was suddenly severed, and floated away from her, leaving her -eyes cold and clear. A sensation of shame that she should ever have been -deceived, that she could have deceived him, ran hot through all her -being. “I think,” she said quickly, “Mr. Everard, that you are speaking -very wildly. I know nothing at all of why you come, of what you are -thinking.” Her tone was indignant, almost haughty, in spite of herself. - -“Ah!” he cried, “I know what you think; you think that I am not as good -as you are, that I’m not a gentleman. Rosalind, if you knew who I was -you would not think that. I could tell you about somebody that you are -very, very fond of; ay! and make it easy for you to see her and be with -her as much as ever you pleased, if you would listen to me. If you only -knew, there are many, many things I could do for you. I could clear up a -great deal if I chose. I could tell you much you want to know if I -chose. I have been fighting off John Trevanion, but I would not fight -off you. If you will only promise me a reward for it; if you will let -your heart speak; if you will give me what I am longing for, Rosalind!” - -He poured forth all this with such impassioned haste, stammering with -excitement and eagerness, that she could but partially understand the -sense, and not at all the extraordinary meaning and intention with which -he spoke. She stood with her face turned to him, angry, bewildered, -feeling that the attempt to catch the thread of something concealed and -all-important in what he said was more than her faculties were equal to; -and on the surface of her mind was the indignation and almost shame -which such an appeal, unjustified by any act of hers, awakens in a -sensitive girl. The sound of her own name from his lips seemed to strike -her as if he had thrown a stone at her. “Mr. Everard,” she cried, -scarcely knowing what words she used, “you have no right to call me -Rosalind. What is it you mean?” - -“Ah!” he cried, with a laugh, “you ask me that! you want to have what I -can give, but give me nothing in return.” - -“I think,” said Rosalind, quickly, “that you forget yourself, Mr. -Everard. A gentleman, if he has anything to tell, does not make -bargains. What is it, about some one, whom you say I love--” She began -to tremble very much, and put her hands together in an involuntary -prayer! “Oh, if it should be--Mr. Everard! I will thank you all my life -if you will tell me--” - -“Promise me you will listen to me, Rosalind; promise me! I don’t want -your thanks; I want your--love. I have been after you for a long, long -time; oh, before anything happened. Promise me--” - -He put out his hands to clasp hers, but this was more than she could -bear. She recoiled from him, with an unconscious revelation of her -distaste, almost horror, of these advances, which stung his self-esteem. -“You won’t!” he cried, hoarsely; “I am to give everything and get -nothing? Then I won’t neither, and that is enough for to-night--” - -He had got on the gravel again, in his sudden, angry step backward, and -turned on his heel, crushing the pebbles with a sound that seemed to jar -through all the atmosphere. After he had gone a few steps he paused, as -if expecting to be called back. But Rosalind’s heart was all aflame. She -said to herself, indignantly, that to believe such a man had anything to -tell her was folly, was a shame to think of, was impossible. To chaffer -and bargain with him, to promise him anything--her love, oh Heaven! how -dared he ask it?--was intolerable. She turned away with hot, feminine -impulse, and a step in which there was no pause or wavering; increasing -the distance between them at a very different rate from that achieved by -his lingering steps. It seemed that he expected to be recalled after she -had disappeared altogether and hidden herself, panting, among the -shadows; for she could still hear his step pause with that jar and harsh -noise upon the gravel for what seemed to her, in her excitement, an hour -of suspense. And Rosalind’s heart jarred, as did all the echoes. Harsh -vibrations of pain went through and through it. The rending away of her -own self-illusion in respect to him, which was not unmingled with a -sense of guilt--for that illusion had been half voluntary, a fiction of -her own creating, a refuge of the imagination from other thoughts--and -at the same time a painful sense of his failure, and proof of the -floating doubt and fear which had always been in her mind on his -account, wounded and hurt her with almost a physical reality of pain. -And what was this suggestion, cast into the midst of this whirlpool of -agitated and troubled thought?--“I could tell you; I could make it easy -for you to see; I could clear up--” What? oh what, in the name of -Heaven! could he mean? - -She did not know how long she remained pondering these questions, -making a circuitous round through the grounds, under the shadows, until -she got back again, gliding noiselessly to the veranda, from which she -could dart into the house at any return of her unwelcome suitor. But she -still stood there after all had relapsed into the perfect silence of -night in such a place. The tourists in the boat had rowed to the beach -and disembarked, and disappeared on their way home. The evening breeze -dropped altogether and ceased to move the trees, while she still stood -against the trellis-work scarcely visible in the gloom, wondering, -trying to think, trying to satisfy the questions that arose in her mind, -with a vague sense that if she but knew what young Everard meant, there -might be in it some guide, some clue to the mystery which weighed upon -her soul. But this was not all that Rosalind was to encounter. While she -stood thus gazing out from her with eyes that noted nothing, yet could -not but see, she was startled by something, a little wandering shadow, -not much more substantial than her dreams, which flitted across the -scene before her. Her heart leaped up with a pang of terror. What was -it? When the idea of the supernatural has once gained admission into the -mind the mental perceptions are often disabled in after-emergencies. Her -strength abandoned her. She covered her eyes with her hands, with a rush -of the blood to her head, a failing of all her powers. Something white -as the moonlight flitting across the moonlight, a movement, a break in -the stillness of nature. When she looked up again there was nothing to -be seen. Was there nothing to be seen? With a sick flutter of her heart, -searching the shadows round with keen eyes, she had just made sure that -there was nothing on the terrace, when a whiteness among the shrubs drew -her eyes farther down. Her nerves, which had played her false for a -moment, grew steady again, though her heart beat wildly. There came a -faint sound like a footstep, which reassured her a little. In such -circumstances sound is salvation. She herself was a sight to have -startled any beholder, as timidly, breathlessly, under the impulse of a -visionary terror, she came out, herself all white, into the whiteness -of the night. She called “Is there any one there?” in a very tremulous -voice. No answer came to her question; but she could now see clearly the -other moving speck of whiteness, gliding on under the dark trees, -emerging from the shadows, on to a little point of vision from which the -foliage had been cleared a little farther down. It stood there for a -moment, whiteness on whiteness, the very embodiment of a dream. A sudden -idea flashed into Rosalind’s mind, relieving her brain, and, without -pausing a moment, she hurried down the path, relieved from one fear only -to be seized by another. She reached the little ghost as it turned from -that platform to continue the descent. The whiteness of the light had -stolen the color out of the child’s hair. She was like a little statue -in alabaster, her bare feet, her long, half-curled locks, the folds of -her nightdress, all softened and rounded in the light. “Amy!” cried -Rosalind--but Amy did not notice her sister. Her face had the solemn -look of sleep, but her eyes were open. She went on unconscious, going -forward to some visionary end of her own from which no outward influence -could divert her. Rosalind’s terror was scarcely less great than when -she thought it an apparition. She followed, with her heart and her head -both throbbing, the unconscious little wanderer. Amy went down through -the trees and shrubs to the very edge of the lake, so close that -Rosalind behind hovered over her, ready at the next step to seize upon -her, her senses coming back, but her mind still confused, in her -perplexity not knowing what to do. Then there was for a moment a -breathless pause. Amy turned her head from side to side, as if looking -for some one; Rosalind seated herself on a stone to wait what should -ensue. It was a wonderful scene. The dark trees waved overhead, but the -moon, coming down in a flood of silver, lit up all the beach below. It -might have been an allegory of a mortal astray, with a guardian angel -standing close, watching, yet with no power to save. The water moving -softly with its ceaseless ripple, the soft yet chill air of night -rustling in the leaves, were the only things that broke the stillness. -The two human figures in the midst seemed almost without breath. - -Rosalind did not know what to do. In the calm of peaceful life such -incidents are rare. She did not know whether she might not injure the -child by awaking her. But while she waited, anxious and trembling, -Nature solved the question for her. The little wavelets lapping the -stones came up with a little rush and sparkle in the light an inch or -two farther than before, and bathed Amy’s bare feet. The cold touch -broke the spell in a moment. The child started and sprang up with a -sudden cry. What might have happened to her had she woke to find herself -alone on the beach in the moonlight, Rosalind trembled to think. Her cry -rang along all the silent shore, a cry of distracted and bewildering -terror: “Oh, mamma! mamma! where are you?” then Amy, turning suddenly -round, flew, wild with fear, fortunately into her sister’s arms. - -“Rosalind! is it Rosalind? And where is mamma? oh, take me to mamma. She -said she would be here.” It was all Rosalind could do to subdue and -control the child, who nearly suffocated her, clinging to her throat, -urging her on: “I want mamma--take me to mamma!” she cried, resisting -her sister’s attempts to lead her up the slope towards the house. -Rosalind’s strength was not equal to the struggle. After a while her own -longing burst forth. “Oh, if I knew where I could find her!” she said, -clasping the struggling child in her arms. Amy was subdued by Rosalind’s -tears. The little passion wore itself out. She looked round her, -shuddering in the whiteness of the moonlight. “Rosalind! are we all -dead, like mamma?” Amy said. - -The penetrating sound of the child’s cry reached the house and far -beyond it, disturbing uneasy sleepers all along the edge of the lake. It -reached John Trevanion, who was seated by himself, chewing the cud of -fancy, bitter rather than sweet, and believing himself the only person -astir in the house. There is something in a child’s cry which touches -the hardest heart; and his heart was not hard. It did not occur to him -that it could proceed from any of the children of the house, but it was -too full of misery and pain to be neglected. He went out, hastily -opening the great window, and was, in his terror, almost paralyzed by -the sight of the two white figures among the trees, one leaning upon the -other. It was only after a momentary hesitation that he hurried towards -them, arriving just in time, when Rosalind’s strength was about giving -way, and carried Amy into the house. The entire household, disturbed, -came from all corners with lights and outcries. But Amy, when she had -been warmed and comforted, and laid in Rosalind’s bed, and recovered -from her sobbing, had no explanations to give. She had dreamed she was -going to mamma, that mamma was waiting for her down on the side of the -lake. “Oh, I want mamma, I want mamma!” the child cried, and would not -be comforted. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - - -Arthur Rivers had come home on the top of the wave of prosperity; his -little war was over, and if it were not he who had gained the day, he -yet had a large share of its honors. It was he who had made it known to -all the eager critics in England, and given them the opportunity to let -loose their opinion. He had kept the supply of news piping hot, one -supply ready to be served as soon as the other was despatched, to the -great satisfaction of the public and of his “proprietors.” His -well-known energy, daring, and alertness, the qualities for which he had -been sent out, had never been so largely manifested before. He had -thrown himself into the brief but hot campaign with the ardor of a -soldier. But there was more in it than this. It was with the ardor of a -lover that he had labored--a lover with a great deal to make up to bring -him to the level of her he loved. And his zeal had been rewarded. He was -coming home, to an important post, with an established place and -position in the world, leaving his life of adventure and wandering -behind him. They had their charms, and in their time he had enjoyed -them; but what he wanted now was something that it would be possible to -ask Rosalind to share. Had he been the commander, as he had only been -the historian of the expedition; had he brought back a baronetcy and a -name famous in the annals of the time, his task would have been easier. -As it was, his reputation--though to its owner very agreeable--was of a -kind which many persons scoff at. The soldiers, for whom he had done -more than anybody else could do, recommending them to their country as -even their blood and wounds would never have recommended them without -his help, did not make any return for his good offices, and held him -cheap; but, on the other hand, it had procured him his appointment, and -made it possible for him to put his question to Rosalind into a -practical shape and repeat it to her uncle. He came home with his mind -full of this and of excitement and eagerness. He had no time to lose. He -was too old for Rosalind as well as not good enough for her, not rich -enough, not great enough. Sir Arthur Rivers, K.C.B., the conquering -hero--that would have been the right thing. But since he was not that, -the only thing he could do was to make the most of what he was. He could -give her a pretty house in London, where she would see the best of -company; not the gentle dulness of the country, but all the wits, all -that was brilliant in society, and have the cream of those amusements -and diversions which make life worth living in town. That is always -something to offer, if you have neither palaces nor castles, nor a great -name, nor a big fortune. Some women would think it better than all -these; and he knew that it would be full of pleasures and pleasantness, -not dull--a life of variety and brightness and ease. Was it not very -possible that these things would tempt her, as they have tempted women -more lofty in position than Rosalind? And he did not think her relations -would oppose it if she so chose. His family was very obscure; but that -has ceased to be of the importance it once was. He did not believe that -John Trevanion would hesitate on account of his family. If only Rosalind -should be pleased! It was, perhaps, because he was no longer quite young -that he thought of what he had to offer; going over it a thousand times, -and wondering if this and that might not have a charm to her as good, -perhaps better, than the different things that other people had to -offer. He was a man who was supposed to know human nature and to have -studied it much, and had he been writing a book he would no doubt have -scoffed at the idea of a young girl considering the attractions of -different ways of living and comparing what he had to give with what -other people possessed. But there was a certain humility in the way in -which his mind approached the subject in his own case, not thinking of -his own personal merits. He could give her a bright and full and -entertaining life. She would never be dull with him. That was better -even than rank, he said to himself. - -Rivers arrived a few days after the Trevanion party had gone to Bonport. -He was profoundly pleased and gratified to find John Trevanion waiting -at the station, and to receive his cordial greeting. “My sister will -expect to see you very soon,” he said. “They think it is you who are the -hero of the war; and, indeed, so you have been, almost as much as Sir -Ruby, and with fewer jealousies; and the new post, I hear, is a capital -one. I should say you were a lucky fellow, if you had not worked so well -for it all.” - -“Yes, I hear it is a pleasant post; and to be able to stay at home, and -not be sent off to the end of the earth at a moment’s notice--” - -“How will you bear it? that is the question,” said John Trevanion. “I -should not wonder if in a year you were bored to death.” - -Rivers shook his head, with a laugh. “And I hope all are well,” he said; -“Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion.” - -He did not venture as yet to put the question more plainly. - -“We are all well enough,” said John, “though there are always vexations. -Oh! nothing of importance, I hope; only some bother about the children -and Rosalind. That’s why I removed them; but Rex is coming, and another -young fellow, Hamerton--perhaps you recollect him at Clifton. I hope -they will cheer us up a little. There is their train coming in. Let us -see you soon. Good-night!” - -Another young fellow, Hamerton! Then it was not to meet him, Rivers, -that Trevanion was waiting. There was no special expectation of him. It -was Rex, the schoolboy, and young Hamerton who was to cheer them -up--Rex, a sulky young cub, and Hamerton, a thick-headed rustic. John -went off quite unconscious of the arrow he had planted in his friend’s -heart, and Rivers turned away, with a blank countenance, to his hotel, -feeling that he had fallen down--down from the skies into a bottomless -abyss. All this while, during so many days of travel, he had been coming -towards her; now he seemed to be thrown back from her--back into -uncertainty and the unknown. He lingered a little as the train from -Paris came in, and heard John Trevanion’s cheerful “Oh, here you are!” -and the sound of the other voices. It made his heart burn to think of -young Hamerton--the young clodhopper!--going to her presence, while he -went gloomily to the hotel. His appearance late for dinner presented a -new and welcome enigma to the company who dined at the _table d’hôte_. -Who was he? Some one fresh from India, no doubt, with that bronzed -countenance and hair which had no right to be gray. There was something -distinguished about his appearance which everybody remarked, and a -little flutter of curiosity to know who he was awoke, especially among -the English people, who, but that he seemed so entirely alone, would -have taken him for Sir Ruby himself. Rivers took a little comfort from -the sense of his own importance and of the sensation made by his -appearance. But to arrive here with his mind full of Rosalind, and to -find himself sitting alone at a foreign _table d’hôte_, with half the -places empty and not a creature he knew, chilled him ridiculously--he -who met people he knew in every out-of-the-way corner in the earth. And -all the time Hamerton at her side--Hamerton, a young nobody! There was -no doubt that it was very hard to bear. As soon as dinner was over he -went out to smoke his cigar and go over again, more ruefully than ever, -his prospects of success. It was a brilliant moonlight night, the trees -in the hotel garden standing, with their shadows at their feet, in a -blackness as of midnight, while between, every vacant space was full of -the intense white radiance. He wandered out and in among them, gloomily -thinking how different the night would have been had he been looking -down upon the silver lake by the side of Rosalind. No doubt that was -what she was doing. Would there be any recollection of him among her -thoughts, or of the question he had asked her in the conservatory at the -Elms? Would she think he was coming for his answer, and what in all this -long interval had she been making up her mind to reply? - -He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he took no note of the few -people about. These were very few, for though the night was as warm as -it was bright, it was yet late in the season, and the rheumatic people -thought there was a chill in the air. By degrees even the few figures -that had been visible at first dwindled away, and Rivers at last awoke -to the consciousness that there was but one left, a lady in black, very -slight, very light of foot, for whose coming he was scarcely ever -prepared when she appeared, and who shrank into the shadow as he came -up, as if to avoid his eye. Something attracted him in this mysterious -figure, he could not tell what, a subtile sense of some link of -connection between her and himself; some internal and unspoken -suggestion which quickened his eyes and interest, but which was too -indefinite to be put into words. Who could she be? Where had he seen -her? he asked, catching a very brief, momentary glimpse of her face; but -he was a man who knew everybody, and it was little wonder if the names -of some of his acquaintances should slip out of his recollection. It -afforded him a sort of occupation to watch for her, to calculate when in -the round of the garden which she seemed to be making she would come to -that bare bit of road, disclosed by the opening in the trees, where the -moonlight revealed in a white blaze everything that passed. He was for -the moment absorbed in this pursuit--for it was in reality a pursuit, a -sort of hunt through his own mind for some thread of association -connected with a wandering figure like this--when some one else, a -new-comer, came hastily into the garden, and established himself at a -table close by. There was no mistaking this stranger--a robust young -Englishman still in his travelling dress, whom Rivers recognized with -mingled satisfaction and hostility. He was not then spending the evening -with Rosalind, this young fellow who was not worthy to be admitted to -her presence. That was a satisfaction in its way. He had been received -to dinner because he came with the boy, but that was all. Young Hamerton -sat down in the full moonlight where no one could make any mistake about -him. He recognized Rivers with a stiff little bow. They said to each -other, “It is a beautiful night,” and then relapsed respectively into -silence. But in the heat of personal feeling thus suddenly evoked, -Rivers forgot the mysterious lady for a moment, and saw her no more. -After some time the new-comer said to him, with a sort of reluctant -abruptness, “They are rather in trouble over there,” making a gesture -with his hand to indicate some locality on the other side of the darkly -waving trees. - -“In trouble--” - -“Oh, not of much importance, perhaps. The children--have all -been--upset; I don’t understand it quite. There was something that -disturbed them--in the hotel here. Perhaps you know--” - -“I only arrived this evening,” Rivers said. - -The other drew a long breath. Was it of relief? Perhaps he had spoken -only to discover whether his rival had been long enough in the -neighborhood to have secured any advantage. “We brought over the old -nurse with us--the woman, you know, who-- Oh, I forgot, you don’t know,” -Hamerton added, hastily. This was said innocently enough, but it -offended the elder suitor, jealous and angry after the unreasonable -manner of a lover, that any one, much less this young fellow, whose -pretensions were so ridiculous, should have known her and her -circumstances before and better than himself. - -“I prefer not to know anything that the Trevanions do not wish to be -known,” he said sharply. It was not true, for his whole being quivered -with eagerness to know everything about them, all that could be told; -but at the same time there was in his harsh tones a certain justness of -reproach that brought the color to young Hamerton’s face. - -“You are quite right,” he said; “it is not my business to say word.” - -And then there was silence again. It was growing late. The verandas of -the great hotel, a little while ago full of chattering groups, were all -vacant; the lights had flitted up-stairs; a few weary waiters lounged -about the doors, anxiously waiting till the two Englishmen--so culpably -incautious about the night air and the draughts, so brutally indifferent -to the fact that Jules and Adolphe and the rest had to get up very early -in the morning and longed to be in bed--should come in, and all things -be shut up; but neither Hamerton nor Rivers thought of Adolphe and -Jules. - -Finally, after a long silence, the younger man spoke again. His mind was -full of one subject, and he wanted some one to speak to, were it only -his rival. “This cannot be a healthy place,” he said; “they are not -looking well--they are all--upset. I suppose it is bad for--the -nerves--” - -“Perhaps there may be other reasons,” said Rivers. His heart stirred -within him at the thought that agitation, perhaps of a nature kindred to -his own, might be affecting the one person who was uppermost in the -thoughts of both--for he did not doubt that Hamerton, who had said -_them_, meant Rosalind. That she might be pale with anticipation, -nervous and tremulous in this last moment of suspense! the idea brought -a rush of blood to his face, and a warm flood of tender thoughts and -delight to his heart. - -“I don’t know what other reasons,” said Hamerton. “She thinks-- I mean -there is nothing thought of but those children. Something has happened -to them. The old nurse, the woman-- I told you--came over with us to take -them in hand. Poor little things? it is not much to be wondered at--” he -said, and then stopped short, with the air of a man who might have a -great deal to say. - -A slight rustling in the branches behind caught Rivers’ attention. All -his senses were very keen, and he had the power, of great advantage in -his profession, of seeing and hearing without appearing to do so. He -turned his eyes, but not his head, in the direction of that faint sound, -and saw with great wonder the lady whom he had been watching, an almost -imperceptible figure against the opaque background of the high shrubs, -standing behind Hamerton. Her head was a little thrust forward in the -attitude of listening, and the moon just caught her face. He was too -well disciplined to suffer the cry of recognition which came to his lips -to escape from them, but in spite of himself expressed his excitement in -a slight movement--a start which made the rustic chair on which he was -seated quiver, and displaced the gravel under his feet. Hamerton did not -so much as notice that he had moved at all, but the lady’s head was -drawn back, and the thick foliage behind once more moved as by a breath, -and all was still. Rivers was very much absorbed in one pursuit and one -idea, which made him selfish; but yet his heart was kind. He conquered -his antipathy to the young fellow who was his rival, whom (on that -ground) he despised, yet feared, and forced himself to ask a question, -to draw him on. “What has happened to the children,” he said; “are they -ill?” There was a faint breeze in the tree-tops, but none down here in -the solid foliage of the great bushes; yet there was a stir in the -laurel as of a bird in its nest. - -“They are not ill, but yet something has happened. I believe the little -things have been seeing ghosts. They sent for this woman, Russell, you -know--confound her--” - -“Why confound her?” - -“Oh, it’s a long story--confound her all the same! There are some women -that it is very hard for a man not to wish to knock down. But I suppose -they think she’s good for the children. That is all they think of, it -appears to me,” Roland said, dejectedly. “The children--always the -children--one cannot get in a word. And as for anything else--anything -that is natural--” - -This moved Rivers on his own account. Sweet hope was high in his heart. -It might very well be that this young fellow could not get in a word. -Who could tell that the excuse of the children might not be made use of -to silence an undesired suitor, to leave the way free for-- His soul -melted with a delicious softness and sense of secret exultation. “Let us -hope their anxiety may not last,” he said, restraining himself, keeping -as well as he could the triumph out of his voice. Hamerton looked at him -quickly, keenly; he felt that there was exultation--something -exasperating--a tone of triumph in it. - -“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last,” he said. “Little Amy is like a -little ghost herself; but how can it be otherwise in such an unnatural -state of affairs--the mother gone, and all the responsibility put upon -one--upon one who-- For what is Mrs. Lennox?” he cried, half angrily; “oh -yes, a good, kind soul--but she has to be taken care of too--and all -upon one--upon one who--” - -“You mean Miss Trevanion?” - -“I don’t mean--to bring in any names. Look here,” cried the young man, -“you and I, Rivers--we are not worthy to name her name.” - -His voice was a little husky; his heart was in his mouth. He felt a sort -of brotherly feeling even for this rival who might perhaps, being clever -(he thought), be more successful than he, but who, in the meantime, had -more in common with him than any other man, because he too loved -Rosalind. Rivers did not make any response. Perhaps he was not young -enough to have this feeling for any woman. A man may be very much in -love--may be ready even to make any exertion, almost any sacrifice, to -win the woman he loves, and yet be unable to echo such a sentiment. He -could not allow that he was unworthy to name her name. Hamerton scarcely -noticed his silence, and yet was a little relieved not to have any -response. - -“I am a little upset myself,” he said, “because you know I’ve been mixed -up with it all from the beginning, which makes one feel very differently -from those that don’t know the story. I couldn’t help just letting out a -little. I beg your pardon for taking up your time with what perhaps -doesn’t interest you.” - -This stung the other man to the quick. “It interests me more, perhaps, -than you could understand,” he cried. “But,” he added, after a pause, -“it remains to be seen whether the family wish me to know--not certainly -at second-hand.” - -Hamerton sprang to his feet in hot revulsion of feeling. “If you mean me -by the second-hand,” he said; then paused, ashamed both of the good -impulse and the less good which had made him thus betray himself. “I beg -your pardon,” he added; “I’ve been travelling all day, and I suppose I’m -tired and apt to talk nonsense. Good-night.” - -Jules and Adolphe were glad. They showed the young Englishman to his -room with joy, making no doubt that the other would follow. But the -other did not follow. He sat for a time silently, with his head on his -hand. Then he rose, and walking to the other side of the great bouquet -of laurels, paused in the profound shadow, where there stood, as he -divined rather than saw, a human creature in mysterious anguish, -anxiety, and pain. He made out with difficulty a tall shadow against the -gloomy background of the close branches. “I do not know who you are,” he -said; “I do not ask to know; but you are deeply interested in what -that--that young fellow was saying?” - -The voice that replied to him was very low. “Oh, more than interested; -it is like life and death to me. For God’s sake, tell me if you know -anything more.” - -“I know nothing to-night--but to-morrow-- You are the lady whom I met in -Spain two years ago, whose portrait stands on Rosalind Trevanion’s -writing-table.” - -There was a low cry; “Oh! God bless you for telling me! God bless you -for telling me!” and the sound of a suppressed sob. - -“I shall see her to-morrow,” he said. “I have come thousands of miles to -see her. It is possible that I might be of use to you. May I tell her -that you are here?” - -The stir among the branches seemed to take a different character as he -spoke, and the lady came out towards the partial light. She said firmly, -“No; I thank you for your kind intentions;” then paused. “You will think -it strange that I came behind you and listened. You will think it was -not honorable. But I heard their name, and Roland Hamerton knows me. -When a woman is in great trouble she is driven to strange expedients. -Sir,” she cried, after another agitated pause, “I neither know your name -nor who you are, but if you will bring me news to-morrow after you have -seen them--if you will tell me--it will be a good deed--it will be a -Christian deed.” - -“Say something more to me than that,” he cried, with a passion that -surprised himself; “say that you will wish me well.” - -She moved along softly, noiselessly, with her head turned to him, moving -towards the moonlight, which was like the blaze of day, within a few -steps from where they had been standing. The impression which had been -upon his mind of a fugitive--a woman abandoned and forlorn--died out so -completely that he felt ashamed ever to have ventured upon such a -thought. And he felt, with a sudden sense of imperfection quite -unfamiliar to him, that he was being examined and judged. He felt, too, -with an acute self-consciousness, that the silver in his hair shone in -the white light, and that the counterbalancing qualities of fine outline -and manly color must be wanting in that wan and colorless illumination. -He could not see her face, except as an abstract paleness, turned -towards him, over-shadowed by the veil which she had put back, but which -still threw a deep shade; but she gazed into his, which he could not but -turn towards her in the full light of the moon. The end of the -examination was not very consolatory to his pride. She sighed and turned -away. “The man whom she chooses will want no other blessing,” she said. - -A few minutes after Jules and Adolphe were happy, shutting up the doors, -putting out the lights, betaking themselves to the holes and corners -under the stairs, under the roofs, in which these sufferers for the good -of humanity slept. - - - - -CHAPTER LIV. - - -The incident of that evening had a very disturbing effect upon the -family at Bonport. Little Amy, waking next morning much astonished to -find herself in Rosalind’s room, and very faintly remembering what had -happened, was subjected at once to questionings more earnest than -judicious--questionings which brought everything to her mind, with a -renewal of all the agitation of the night. But the child had nothing to -say beyond what she had said before--that she had dreamed of mamma, that -mamma had called her to come down to the lake, and be taken home; that -she wanted to go home, to go to mamma--oh, to go to mamma! but Rosalind -said she was dead, and Sophy said they were never, never to see her -again. Then Amy flung herself upon her sister’s breast, and implored to -be taken to her mother. “You don’t know how wicked I was, Rosalind. -Russell used to say things till I stopped loving mamma--oh, I did, and -did not mind when she went away! But now! where is she, where is she? -Oh, Rosalind! oh, Rosalind! will she never come back? Oh, do you think -she is angry, or that she does not care for me any more? Oh, Rosalind, -is she dead, and will she never come back?” This cry seemed to come from -Amy’s very soul. She could not be stilled. She lay in Rosalind’s bed, as -white as the hangings about her, not much more than a pair of dark eyes -looking out with eagerness unspeakable. And Rosalind, who had gone -through so many vicissitudes of feeling--who had stood by the mother who -was not her mother with so much loyalty, yet had yielded to the progress -of events, and had not known, in the ignorance of her youth, what to do -or say, or how to stand against it-- Rosalind was seized all at once by a -vehement determination and an intolerable sense that the present -position of affairs was impossible, and could not last. - -“Oh, my darling!” she cried; “get well and strong, and you and I will go -and look for her, and never, never be taken from her again!” - -“But, Rosalind, if mamma is dead?” cried little Amy. - -The elder people who witnessed this scene stole out of the room, unable -to bear it any longer. - -“It must be put a stop to,” John Trevanion said, in a voice that was -sharp with pain. - -“Oh, who can put a stop to it?” cried Mrs. Lennox, weeping, and -recovering herself and weeping again. “I should not have wondered, not -at all, if it had happened at first; but, after these years! And I that -thought children were heartless little things, and that they had -forgot!” - -“Can Russell do nothing, now you have got her here?” he cried with -impatience, walking up and down the room. He was at his wits’ end, and -in his perplexity felt himself incapable even of thought. - -“Oh, John, did you not hear what that little thing said? She put the -children against their mother. Amy will not let Russell come near her. -If I have made a mistake, I meant it for the best. Russell is as -miserable as any of us. Johnny has forgotten her, and Amy cannot endure -the sight of her. And now it appears that coming to Bonport, which was -your idea, is a failure too, though I am sure we both did it for the -best.” - -“That is all that could be said for us if we were a couple of -well-intentioned fools,” he cried. “And, indeed, we seem to have acted -like fools in all that concerns the children,” he added, with a sort of -bitterness. For what right had fate to lay such a burden upon him--him -who had scrupulously preserved himself, or been preserved by Providence, -from any such business of his own? - -“John,” said Mrs. Lennox, drying her eyes, “I don’t think there is so -much to blame yourself about. You felt sure it would be better for them -being here; and when you put it to me, so did I. You never thought of -the lake. Why should you think of the lake? We never let them go near it -without somebody to take care of them in the day, and how could any one -suppose that at night--” - -Upon this her brother seized his hat and hurried from the house. The -small aggravation seemed to fill up his cup so that he could bear no -more, with this addition, that Mrs. Lennox’s soft purr of a voice roused -mere exasperation in him, while his every thought of the children, even -when the cares they brought threatened to overwhelm him, was tender with -natural affection. But, in fact, wherever he turned at this moment he -saw not a gleam of light, and there was a bitterness as of the deferred -and unforeseen in this sudden gathering together of clouds and dangers -which filled him almost with awe. The catastrophe itself had passed over -much more quietly than could have been thought. But, lo, here, when no -fear was, the misery came. His heart melted within him when he thought -of Amy’s little pale face and that forlorn expedition in the stillness -of the night to the side of the lake which betrayed, as nothing else -could have done, the feverish working of her brain and the disturbance -of her entire being. What madness of rage and jealousy must that have -been that induced a man to leave this legacy of misery behind him to -work in the minds of his little children years after he was dead! and -what appalling cruelty and tyranny it was which made it possible for a -dead man, upon whom neither argument nor proof could be brought to bear, -thus to blight by a word so many lives! All had passed with a strange -simplicity at first, and with such swift and silent carrying-out of the -terrible conditions of the will that there had been no time to think if -any expedient were possible. Looking back upon it, it seemed to him -incredible that anything so extraordinary should have taken place with -so little disturbance. _She_ had accepted her fate without a word, and -every one else had accepted it. The bitterness of death seemed to have -passed, except for the romance of devotion on Rosalind’s part, which he -believed had faded in the other kind of romance more natural at her age. -No one but himself had appeared to remember at all this catastrophe -which rent life asunder. But now, when no one expected it, out of the -clear sky came the explosions of the storm. He had decided too quickly -that all was over. The peace had been but a pretence, and now the whole -matter would have to be re-opened again. - -The cause of the sudden return of all minds to the great family disaster -and misery seemed to him more than ever confused by this last event. The -condition which had led to Amy’s last adventure seemed to make it more -possible, notwithstanding Sophy’s supposed discovery, that the story of -the apparition was an illusion throughout. The child, always a visionary -child, must have had, in the unnatural and strained condition of her -nerves and long repression of her feelings, a dream so vivid as, like -that of last night, to take the aspect of reality; and Rosalind, full of -sympathy, and with all her own keen recollections ready to be called -forth at a touch, must have received the contagion from her little -sister, and seen what Amy had so long imagined she saw. Perhaps, even, -it was the same contagion, acting on a matter-of-fact temperament, which -had induced Sophy to believe that she, too, had seen her mother, but in -real flesh and blood. Of all the hypotheses that could be thought of -this seemed to him the most impossible. He had examined all the hotel -registers, and made anxious inquiries everywhere, without finding a -trace of Mrs. Trevanion. She had not, so far as he was aware, renounced -her own name. And, even had she done so, it was impossible that she -could have been in the hotel without some one seeing her, without -leaving some trace behind. Notwithstanding this certainty, John -Trevanion, even while he repeated his conviction to himself, was making -his way once more to the hotel to see whether, by any possibility, some -light might still be thrown upon a subject which had become so urgent. -Yet even that, though it was the first thing that presented itself to -him, had become, in fact, a secondary matter. The real question in this, -as in all difficulties, was what to do next. What could be done to -unravel the fatal tangle? Now that he contemplated the matter from afar, -it became to him all at once a thing intolerable--a thing that must no -longer be allowed to exist. What was publicity, what was scandal, in -comparison with this wreck of life? There must be means, he declared to -himself, of setting an unrighteous will aside, whatever lawyers might -say. His own passiveness seemed incredible to him, as well as the -extraordinary composure with which everybody else had acquiesced, -accepting the victim’s sacrifice. But that was over. Even though the -present agitation should pass away, he vowed to himself that it should -not pass from him until he had done all that man could do to set the -wrong right. - -While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he was walking into -Aix with the speed of a man who has urgent work before him, though that -work was nothing more definite or practical than the examination over -again of the hotel books to see if there he could find any clew. He -turned them over and over in his abstraction, going back without knowing -it to distant dates, and roaming over an endless succession of names -which conveyed no idea to his mind. He came at last, on the last page, -to the name of Arthur Rivers, with a dull sort of surprise. “To be sure, -Rivers is here!” he said to himself aloud. - -“Yes, to be sure I am here. I have been waiting to see if you would find -me out,” Rivers said behind him. John did not give him so cordial a -welcome as he had done on the previous night. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I have so much on my mind I forget -everything. Were you coming out to see my sister? We can walk together. -The sun is warm, but not too hot for walking. That’s an advantage of -this time of the year.” - -“It is perhaps too early for Mrs. Lennox,” Rivers said. - -“Oh, no, not too early. The truth is we are in a little confusion. One -of the children has been giving us a great deal of anxiety.” - -“Then, perhaps,” said Rivers, with desperate politeness, “it will be -better for me not to go.” He felt within himself, though he was so -civil, a sort of brutal indifference to their insignificant distresses, -which were nothing in comparison with his own. To come so far in order -to eat his breakfast under the dusty trees, and dine at the table d’hôte -in a half-empty hotel at Aix, seemed to him so great an injustice and -scorn in the midst of his fame and importance that even the discovery he -had made, though it could not but tell in the situation, passed from his -mind in the heat of offended consequence and pride. - -John Trevanion, for his part, noticed the feeling of the other as little -as Rivers did his. “One of the children has been walking in her sleep,” -he said. “I don’t want to get a fool of a doctor who thinks of nothing -but rheumatism. One of them filled my good sister’s mind with folly -about suppressed gout. Poor little Amy! She has a most susceptible -brain, and I am afraid something has upset it. Do you believe in ghosts, -Rivers?” - -“As much as everybody does,” said Rivers, recovering himself a little. - -“That is about all that any one can say. This child thinks she has seen -one. She is a silent little thing. She has gone on suffering and never -said a word, and the consequence is, her little head has got all wrong.” - -By this time Rivers, having cooled down, began to see the importance of -the disclosure he had to make. He said, “Would you mind telling me what -the apparition was? You will understand, Trevanion, that I don’t want to -pry into your family concerns, and that I would not ask without a -reason.” - -John Trevanion looked at him intently with a startled curiosity and -earnestness. “I can’t suppose,” he said, “when it comes to that, much as -we have paid for concealment, that you have not heard something--” - -“Miss Trevanion told me,” said Rivers--he paused a moment, feeling that -it was a cruel wrong to him that he should be compelled to say Miss -Trevanion--he who ought to have been called to her side at once, who -should have been in a position to claim her before the world as his -Rosalind--“Miss Trevanion gave me to understand that the lady whom I had -met in Spain, whose portrait was on her table, was--” - -“My sister-in-law--the mother of the children--yes, yes--and what then?” -John Trevanion cried. - -“Only this, Trevanion--that lady is here.” - -John caught him by the arm so fiercely, so suddenly, that the leisurely -waiters standing about, and the few hotel guests who were moving out and -in in the quiet of the morning stopped and stared with ideas of rushing -to the rescue. “What do you mean?” he said. “Here? How do you know? It -is impossible.” - -“Come out into the garden, where we can talk. It may be impossible, but -it is true. I also saw her last night.” - -“You must be mad or dreaming, Rivers. You too--a man in your -senses--and-- God in heaven!” he said, with a sudden bitter sense of his -own unappreciated friendship--unappreciated even, it would seem, beyond -the grave--“that she should have come, whatever she had to say, to -you--to any one--and not to me!” - -“Trevanion, you are mistaken. This is no apparition. There was no -choice, of me or any one. That poor lady, whether sinned against or -sinning I have no knowledge, is here. Do you understand me? She is -here.” - -They were standing by this time in the shadow of the great laurel bushes -where she had sheltered on the previous night. John Trevanion said -nothing for a moment. He cast himself down on one of the seats to -recover his breath. It was just where Hamerton had been sitting. Rivers -almost expected to see the faint stir in the bushes, the evidence of -some one listening, to whom the words spoken might, as she said, be -death or life. - -“This is extraordinary news,” said Trevanion at last. “You will pardon -me if I was quite overwhelmed by it. Rivers, you can’t think how -important it is. Where can I find her? You need not fear to betray -her--oh, Heaven, to betray her to me, her brother! But you need not -fear. She knows that there is no one who has more--more regard, more -respect, or more-- Let me know where to find her, my good fellow, for -Heaven’s sake!” - -“Trevanion, it is not any doubt of you. But, in the first place, I don’t -know where to find her, and then--she did not disclose herself to me. I -found her out by accident. Have I any right to dispose of her secret? I -will tell you everything I know,” he added hastily, in answer to the -look and gesture, almost of despair, which John could not restrain. -“Last night your friend, young Hamerton, was talking--injudiciously, I -think”--there was a little sweetness to him in saying this, even in the -midst of real sympathy and interest--“he was talking of what was going -on in your house. I had already seen some one walking about the garden -whose appearance I seemed to recollect. When Hamerton mentioned your -name” (he was anxious that this should be made fully evident), “she -heard it; and by and by I perceived that some one was listening, behind -you, just there, in the laurels.” - -John started up and turned round, gazing at the motionless, glistening -screen of leaves, as if she might still be there. After a moment--“And -what then?” - -“Not much more. I spoke to her afterwards. She asked me, for the love of -God, to bring her news, and I promised--what I could--for to-night.” - -John Trevanion held out his hand, and gave that of Rivers a strong -pressure. “Come out with me to Bonport. You must hear everything, and -perhaps you can advise me. I am determined to put an end to the -situation somehow, whatever it may cost,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER LV. - - -The two men went out to Bonport together, and on the way John Trevanion, -half revolted that he should have to tell it, half relieved to talk of -it to another man, and see how the matter appeared to a person -unconcerned, with eyes clear from prepossession of any kind, either -hostile or tender, gave his companion all the particulars of his painful -story. It was a relief; and Rivers, who had been trained for the bar, -gave it at once as his opinion that the competent authorities would not -hesitate to set such a will aside, or at least, on proof that no moral -danger would arise to the children, would modify its restrictions -greatly. “Wills are sacred theoretically; but there has always been _a -power of_ revision,” he said. And he suggested practical means of -bringing this point to a trial--or at least to the preliminary trial of -counsel’s advice, which gave his companion great solace. “I can see that -we all acted like fools,” John Trevanion confessed, with a momentary -over-confidence that his troubles might be approaching an end. “We were -terrified for the scandal, the public discussion, that would have been -sure to rise--and no one so much as she. Old Blake was all for the -sanctity of the will, as you say, and I--I was so torn in two with -doubts and--miseries--” - -“But I presume,” Rivers said, “these have all been put to rest. There -has been a satisfactory explanation--” - -“Explanation!” cried John. “Do you think I could ask, or she condescend -to give, what you call explanations? She knew her own honor and purity; -and she knew,” he added with a long-drawn breath, “that I knew them as -well as she--” - -“Still,” said Rivers, “explanations are necessary when it is brought -before the public.” - -“It shall never be brought before the public!” - -“My dear Trevanion! How then are you to do anything, how set the will -aside?” - -This question silenced John; and it took further speech out of the mouth -of his companion, who felt, on his side, that if he were about to be -connected with the Trevanion family, it would not be at all desirable, -on any consideration, that this story should become public. He had been -full of interest in the woman whose appearance had struck him before he -knew anything about her, and who had figured so largely in his first -acquaintance with Rosalind. But when it became a question of a great -scandal occupying every mind and tongue, and in which it was possible -his own wife might be concerned--that was a very different matter. In a -great family such things are treated with greater case. If it is true -that an infringement on their honor, a blot on the scutcheon, is -supposed to be of more importance where there is a noble scutcheon to -tarnish, it is yet true that a great family history would lose much of -its interest if it were not crossed now and then by a shadow of -darkness, a tale to make the hearers shudder; and that those who are -accustomed to feel themselves always objects of interest to the world -bear the shame of an occasional disclosure far better than those sprung -from a lowlier level whose life is sacred to themselves, and who guard -their secrets far more jealously than either the great or the very -small. Rivers, in the depth of his nature, which was not that of a born -patrician, trembled at the thought of public interference in the affairs -of a family with which he should be connected. All the more that it -would be an honor and elevation to him to be connected with it, he -trembled to have its secrets published. It was not till after he had -given his advice on the subject that this drawback occurred to him. He -was not a bad man, to doom another to suffer that his own surroundings -might go free; but when he thought of it he resolved that, if he could -bring it about, Rosalind’s enthusiasm should be calmed down, and she -should learn to feel for her stepmother only that calm affection which -stepmothers at the best are worthy of, and which means separation rather -than unity of interests. He pondered this during the latter part of the -way with great abstraction of thought. He was very willing to take -advantage of his knowledge of Mrs. Trevanion, and of the importance it -gave him to be their only means of communication with her; but further -than this he did not mean to go. Were Rosalind once his, there should -certainly be no room in his house for a stepmother of blemished fame. - -And there were many things in his visit to Bonport which were highly -unsatisfactory to Rivers. John Trevanion was so entirely wrapped in his -own cares as to be very inconsiderate of his friend, whose real object -in presenting himself at Aix at all he must no doubt have divined had he -been in possession of his full intelligence. He took the impatient lover -into the grounds of the house where Rosalind was, and expected him to -take an interest in the winding walks by which little Amy had strayed -down to the lake, and all the scenery of that foolish little episode. -“If her sister had not followed her, what might have happened? The child -might have been drowned, or, worse still, might have gone mad in the -shock of finding herself out there all alone. It makes one shudder to -think of it.” Rivers did not shudder; he was not very much interested -about Amy. But his nerves were all jarred by the contrariety of the -circumstances as he looked up through the shade of the trees to the -house at the top of the little eminence, where Rosalind was, but as much -out of his reach as if she had been at the end of the world. He did not -see her until much later, when he returned at John Trevanion’s -invitation to dinner. Rosalind was very pale, but blushed when she met -him with a consciousness which he scarcely knew how to interpret. Was -there hope in the blush, or was it embarrassment--almost pain? She said -scarcely anything during dinner, sitting in the shadow of the pink -_abat-jour_, and of her aunt Sophy, who, glad of a new listener, poured -forth her soul upon the subject of sleep-walking, and told a hundred -stories, experiences of her own and of other people, all tending to -prove that it was the most usual thing in the world, and that, indeed, -most children walked in their sleep. “The thing to do is to be very -careful not to wake them,” Mrs. Lennox said. “That was Rosalind’s -mistake. Oh, my dear, there is no need to tell me that you didn’t mean -anything that wasn’t for the best. Nobody who has ever seen how devoted -you are to these children--just like a mother--could suppose that; but I -understand,” said Aunt Sophy with an air of great wisdom, “that you -should never wake them. Follow, to see that they come to no harm, and -sometimes you may be able to guide them back to their own room--which is -always the best thing to do--_but never wake them_; that is the one -thing you must always avoid.” - -“I should think Rivers has had about enough of Amy’s somnambulism by -this time,” John said. “Tell us something about yourself. Are you going -to stay long? Are you on your way northwards? All kinds of honor and -glory await you at home, we know.” - -“My movements are quite vague. I have settled nothing,” Rivers replied. -And how could he help but look at Rosalind, who, though she never lifted -her eyes, and could not have seen his look, yet changed color in some -incomprehensible way? And how could he see that she changed color in the -pink gloom of the shade, which obscured everything, especially such a -change as that? But he did see it, and Rosalind was aware he did so. -Notwithstanding his real interest in the matter, it was hard for him to -respond to John Trevanion’s questions about the meeting planned for this -evening. It had been arranged between them that John should accompany -Rivers back to the hotel, that he should be at hand should the -mysterious lady consent to see him; and the thought of this possible -interview was to him as absorbing as was the question of Rosalind’s -looks to his companion. But they had not much to say to each other, each -being full of his own thoughts as they sat together for those few -minutes after dinner which were inevitable. Then they followed each -other gloomily into the drawing-room, which was vacant, though a sound -of voices from outside the open window betrayed where the ladies had -gone. Mrs. Lennox came indoors as they approached. “It is a little -cold,” she said, with a shiver. But Rivers found it balm as he stepped -out and saw Rosalind leaning upon the veranda among the late roses, with -the moonlight making a sort of silvery gauze of her light dress. He came -out and placed himself by her; but the window stood open behind, with -John Trevanion within hearing, and Mrs. Lennox’s voice running on quite -audibly close at hand. Was it always to be so? He drew very near to her, -and said in a low voice, “May I not speak to you?” Rosalind looked at -him with eyes which were full of a beseeching earnestness. She did not -pretend to be ignorant of what he meant. The moonlight gave an -additional depth of pathetic meaning to her face, out of which it stole -all the color. - -“Oh, Mr. Rivers, not now!” she said, with an appeal which he could not -resist. Poor Rivers turned and left her in the excitement of the moment. -He went along the terrace to the farther side with a poor pretence of -looking at the landscape, in reality to think out the situation. What -could he say to recommend himself, to put himself in the foreground of -her thoughts? A sudden suggestion flashed upon him, and he snatched at -it without further consideration. When he returned to where he had left -her, Rosalind was still there, apparently waiting. She advanced towards -him shyly, with a sense of having given him pain. “I am going in now to -Amy,” she said; “I waited to bid you good-night.” - -“One word,” he said. “Oh, nothing about myself, Miss Trevanion. I will -wait, if I must not speak. But I have a message for you.” - -“A message--for me!” She came a little nearer to him, with that strange -divination which accompanies great mental excitement, feeling -instinctively that what he was about to say must bear upon the subject -of her thoughts. - -“You remember,” he said, “the lady whom I told you I had met? I have met -her again, Miss Trevanion.” - -“Where?” She turned upon him with a cry, imperative and passionate. - -“Miss Trevanion, I have never forgotten the look you gave me when I said -that the lady was accompanied by a man. I want to explain; I have found -out who it was.” - -“Mr. Rivers!” - -“Should I be likely to tell you anything unfit for your ears to hear? I -know better now. The poor lady is not happy, in that any more than in -any other particular of her lot. The man was her son.” - -“_Her son!_” Rosalind’s cry was such that it made Mrs. Lennox stop in -her talk; and John Trevanion, from the depths of the dark room behind, -came forward to know what it was. - -“I felt that I must tell you; you reproached me with your eyes when I -said-- But, if I wronged her, I must make reparation. It was in all -innocence and honor; it was her son.” - -“Mr. Rivers!” cried Rosalind, turning upon him, her breast heaving, her -lips quivering, “this shows it is a mistake. I might have known all the -time it was a mistake. She had no son except-- It was not the same. Thank -you for wishing to set me right; but it could not be the same. It is no -one we know. It is a mistake.” - -“But when I tell you, Miss Trevanion, that she said--” - -“No, no, you must not say any more. We know nothing; it is a mistake.” -Disappointment, with, at the same time, a strange, poignant smart, as of -some chance arrow striking her in the dark, which wounded her without -reason, without aim, filled her mind. She turned quickly, eluding the -hand which Rivers had stretched out, not pausing even for her uncle, and -hastened away without a word. John Trevanion turned upon Rivers, who -came in slowly from the veranda with a changed and wondering look. “What -have you been saying to Rosalind? You seem to have frightened her,” he -said. - -“Oh, it seems all a mistake,” he replied vaguely. He was, in fact, -greatly cast down by the sudden check he had received. In the height of -his consciousness that his own position as holding a clew to the -whereabouts of this mysterious woman was immeasurably advantaged, there -came upon him this chill of doubt lest perhaps after all-- But then she -had herself declared that to hear of the Trevanions was to her as life -and death. Rivers did not know how to reconcile Rosalind’s instant -change of tone, her evident certainty that his information did not -concern her, with the impassioned interest of the woman whom he half -felt that he had betrayed. How he had acquired the information which he -had thought it would be a good thing for him thus to convey he could -scarcely have told. It had been partly divination, partly some echo of -recollection; but he felt certain that he was right; and he had also -felt certain that to hear it would please Rosalind. He was altogether -cast down by her reception of his news. He did not recover himself -during all the long walk back to Aix in the moonlight, which he made in -company with John Trevanion. But John was absorbed in the excitement of -the expected meeting, and did not disturb him by much talking. They -walked along between the straight lines of the trees, through black -depths of shadow and the white glory of the light, exchanging few words, -each wrapped in his own atmosphere. When the lights of the town were -close to them John spoke. “Whether she will speak to me or not, you must -place me where I can see her, Rivers. I must make sure.” - -“I will do the best I can,” said Rivers; “but what if it should all turn -out to be a mistake?” - -“How can it be a mistake? Who else would listen as you say she did? Who -else could take so much interest? But I must make sure. Place me, at -least, where I may see her, even if I must not speak.” - -The garden was nearly deserted, only one or two solitary figures in -shawls and overcoats still lingering in the beauty of the moonlight. -Rivers placed John standing in the shadow of a piece of shrubbery, close -to the open space which she had crossed as she made her round of the -little promenade, and he himself took the seat under the laurels which -he had occupied on the previous night. He thought there was no doubt -that she would come to him, that after the hotel people had disappeared -she would be on the watch, and hasten to hear what he had to tell her. -When time passed on and no one appeared, he got up again and began -himself to walk round and round, pausing now and then to whisper to John -Trevanion that he did not understand it--that he could not imagine what -could be the cause of the delay. They waited thus till midnight, till -the unfortunate waiters on the veranda were nearly distracted, and every -intimation of the late hour which these unhappy men could venture to -give had been given. When twelve struck, tingling through the blue air, -John Trevanion came, finally, out of his hiding-place, and Rivers from -his chair. They spoke in whispers, as conspirators instinctively do, -though there was nobody to hear. “I cannot understand it,” said Rivers, -with the disconcerted air of a man whose exhibition has failed. “I don’t -think it is of any use waiting longer,” said John. “Oh, of no use. I am -very sorry, Trevanion. I confidently expected--” “Something,” said John, -“must have happened to detain her. I am disappointed, but still I do not -cease to hope; and if, in the meantime, you see her, or any trace of -her--” “You may be sure I will do my best,” Rivers said, ashamed, though -it was no fault of his, and, notwithstanding Rosalind’s refusal to -believe, with all his faith in his own conclusions restored. - -They shook hands silently, and John Trevanion went away downcast and -disappointed. When he had gone down the narrow street and emerged into -the Place, which lay full in the moonlight, he saw two tall, dark -shadows in the very centre of the white vacancy and brightness in the -deserted square. They caught his attention for the moment, and he -remembered after that a vague question crossed his mind what two women -could be doing out so late. Were they sisters of charity, returning from -some labor of love? Thus he passed them quickly, yet with a passing -wonder, touched, he could not tell how, by something forlorn in the two -solitary women, returning he knew not from what errand. Had he but known -who these wayfarers were! - - - - -CHAPTER LVI. - - -Two days after this, while as yet there had appeared no further solution -of the mystery, Roland Hamerton came hastily one morning up the sloping -paths of Bonport into the garden, where he knew he should find Rosalind. -He was in the position of a sort of outdoor member of the household, -going and coming at his pleasure, made no account of, enjoying the -privileges of a son and brother rather than of a lover. But the -advantages of this position were great. He saw Rosalind at all hours, in -all circumstances, and he was himself so much concerned about little -Amy, and so full of earnest interest in everything that affected the -family, that he was admitted even to the most intimate consultations. To -Rosalind his presence had given a support and help which she could not -have imagined possible; especially in contrast with Rivers, who -approached her with that almost threatening demand for a final -explanation, and shaped every word and action so as to show that the -reason for his presence here was her and her only. Roland’s self-control -and unfeigned desire to promote her comfort first of all, before he -thought of himself, was in perfect contrast to this, and consolatory -beyond measure. She had got to be afraid of Rivers; she was not at all -afraid of the humble lover who was at the same time her old friend, who -was young like herself, who knew everything that had happened. This was -the state to which she had come in that famous competition between the -three, who ought, as Mr. Ruskin says, to have been seven. One she had -withdrawn altogether from, putting him out of the lists with mingled -repulsion and pity. Another she had been seized with a terror of, as of -a man lying in wait to devour her. The third--he was no one; he was only -Roland; her lover in the nursery, her faithful attendant all her life. -She was not afraid of him, nor of any exaction on his part. Her heart -turned to him with a simple reliance. He was not clever, he was not -distinguished; he had executed for her none of the labors either of -Hercules or any other hero. He had on his side no attractions of natural -beauty, or any of those vague appeals to the imagination which had given -Everard a certain power over her; and he had not carried her image with -him, as Rivers had done, through danger and conflict, or brought back -any laurels to lay at her feet. If it had been a matter of competition, -as in the days of chivalry, or in the scheme of our gentle yet vehement -philosopher, Roland would have had little chance. But after the year was -over in which Rosalind had known of the competition for her favor, he it -was who remained nearest. She glanced up with an alarmed look to see who -was coming, and her face cleared when she saw it was Roland. He would -force no considerations upon her, ask no tremendous questions. She gave -him a smile as he approached. She was seated under the trees, with the -lake gleaming behind for a background through an opening in the foliage. -Mrs. Lennox’s chair still stood on the same spot, but she was not there. -There were some books on the table, but Rosalind was not reading. She -had some needlework in her hands, but that was little more than a -pretence; she was thinking, and all her thoughts were directed to one -subject. She smiled when he came up, yet grudged to lose the freedom of -those endless thoughts. “I thought,” she said, “you were on the water -with Rex.” - -“No, I told you I wanted something to do. I think I have got what I -wanted, but I should like to tell you about it, Rosalind.” - -“Yes?” she said, looking up again with a smiling interrogation. She -thought it was about some piece of exercise or amusement, some long walk -he was going to take, some expedition which he wanted to organize. - -“I have heard something very strange,” he said. “It appears that I said -something the other night to Rivers, whom I found when I went back to -the hotel, and that somebody, some lady, was seen to come near and -listen. I was not saying any harm, you may suppose, but only that the -children were upset. And this lady came around to hear what I was -saying.” - -His meaning did not easily reach Rosalind, who was preoccupied, and did -not connect Roland at all with the mystery around her. She said, “That -was strange; who could it be; some one who knew us in the hotel?” - -“Rosalind, I have never liked to say anything to you about--Madam.” - -“Don’t!” she said, holding up her hand; “oh, don’t, Roland. The only -time you spoke to me about her you hurt me--oh, to the very heart; not -that I believed it; but it was so grievous that you could think, that -you could say--that you could see even, anything--” - -“I have thought it over a hundred times since then, and what you say is -true, Rosalind. One has no right even to see things that--there are some -people who are above even-- I know now what you mean, and that it is -true. You knew her better than any one else, and your faith is mine. -That is why I came to tell you. Rosalind--who could that woman be but -one? She came behind the bushes to hear what I was saying. She was all -trembling--who else could that be?” - -“Roland!” Rosalind had risen up, every tinge of color ebbing from her -face; “you too!--you too--!” - -“No,” he said, rising also, taking her hand; “not that, not that, -Rosalind. If she were dead, as you think, would she not know everything? -She would not need to listen to me. This is what I am sure of, that she -is here and trying every way--” - -She grasped his hands as if her own were iron, and then let them go, and -threw herself into her seat, and sobbed, unable to speak, “Oh, Roland! -oh, Roland!” with a cry that went to his heart. - -“Rosalind,” he said, leaning over her, touching her shoulder, and her -hair, with a sympathy which filled his eyes with tears, and would not be -contented with words, “listen; I am going to look for her now. I sha’n’t -tire of it, whoever tires. I shall find her, Rosalind. And then, if she -will let me take care of her, stand by her, bring her news of you all--! -I have wronged her more than anybody, for I thought that I believed; see -if I don’t make up for it now. I could not go without telling you-- I -shall find her, Rosalind,” the young man cried. - -She rose up again, trembling, and uncovered her face. Her cheeks were -wet with tears, her eyes almost wild with hope and excitement. “I’ll -come with you,” she said. “I had made up my mind before. I will bear it -no longer. Let them take everything; what does it matter? I am not only -my father’s daughter, I am myself first of all. If she is living, -Roland--” - -“She is living, I am sure.” - -“Then as soon as we find her--oh no, she would go away from me; when you -find her Roland-- I put all my trust in you.” - -“And then,” he cried breathlessly, “and then? No, I’ll make no bargains; -only say you trust me, dear. You did say you trusted me, Rosalind.” - -“With all my heart,” she said. - -And as Rosalind looked at him, smiling with her eyes full of tears, the -young man turned and hurried away. When he was nearly out of sight he -looked back and waved his hand: she was standing up gazing after him as -if--as if it were the man whom she loved was leaving her. That was the -thought that leaped up into his heart with an emotion indescribable--the -feeling of one who has found what he had thought lost and beyond his -reach. As if it were the man she loved! Could one say more than that? -“But I’ll make no bargains, I’ll make no bargains,” he said to himself. -“It’s best to be all for love and nothing for reward.” - -While this scene was being enacted in the garden, another, of a very -different description, yet bearing on the same subject, was taking place -in the room which John Trevanion, with the instinct of an Englishman, -called his study. The expedient of sending for Russell had not been very -successful so far as the nursery was concerned. The woman had arrived in -high elation and triumph, feeling that her “family” had found it -impossible to go on any longer without her, and full of the best -intentions, this preliminary being fully acknowledged. She had meant to -make short work with Johnny’s visions and the dreams of Amy, and to show -triumphantly that she, and she only, understood the children. But when -she arrived at Bonport her reception was not what she had hoped. The -face of affairs was changed. Johnny, who saw no more apparitions, no -longer wanted any special care, and Russell found the other woman in -possession, and indisposed to accept her dictation, or yield the place -to her, while Amy, now transferred to Rosalind’s room and care, shrank -from her almost with horror. All this had been bitter to her, a -disappointment all the greater that her hopes had been so high. She -found herself a supernumerary, not wanted by any one in the house, where -she had expected to be regarded as a deliverer. The only consolation she -received was from Sophy, who had greatly dropped out of observation -during recent events, and was as much astonished and as indignant to -find Amy the first object in the household, and herself left out, as -Russell was in her humiliation. The two injured ones found great solace -in each other in these circumstances. Sophy threw herself with -enthusiasm into the work of consoling, yet embittering, her old -attendant’s life. Sophy told her all that had been said in the house -before her arrival, and described the distaste of everybody for her with -much graphic force. She gave Russell also an account of all that had -passed, of the discovery which she believed she herself had made, and -further, though this of itself sent the blood coursing through Russell’s -veins, of the other incidents of the family life, and of Rosalind’s -lovers; Mr. Rivers, who had just come from the war, and Mr. Everard, who -was the gentleman who had been at the Red Lion. “Do you think he was in -love with Rosalind then, Russell?” Sophy said, her keen eyes dancing -with curiosity and eagerness. Russell said many things that were very -injudicious, every word of which Sophy laid up in her heart, and felt -with fierce satisfaction that her coming was not to be for nothing, and -that the hand of Providence had brought her to clear up this imbroglio. -She saw young Everard next day, and convinced herself of his identity, -and indignation and horror blazed up within her. Russell scarcely slept -all night, and as she lay awake gathered together all the subjects of -wrath she had, and piled them high. Next morning she knocked at John -Trevanion’s door, with a determination to make both her grievances and -her discovery known at once. - -“Mr. Trevanion,” said Russell, “may I speak a word with you, sir, if you -please?” - -John Trevanion turned around upon his chair, and looked at her with -surprise, and an uncomfortable sense of something painful to come. What -had he to do with the women-servants? That, at least, was out of his -department. “What do you want?” he asked in a helpless tone. - -“Mr. John,” said Russell, drawing nearer, “there is something that I -must say. I can’t say it to Mrs. Lennox, for she’s turned against me -like the rest. But a gentleman is more unpartial like. Do you know, sir, -who it is that is coming here every day, and after Miss Rosalind, as -they tell me? After Miss Rosalind! It’s not a thing I like to say of a -young lady, and one that I’ve brought up, which makes it a deal worse; -but she has no proper pride. Mr. John, do you know who that Mr. Everard, -as they call him, is?” - -“Yes, I know who he is. You had better attend to the affairs of the -nursery, Russell.” - -This touched into a higher blaze the fire of Russell’s wrath. “The -nursery! I’m not allowed in it. There is another woman there that thinks -she has the right to my place. I’m put in a room to do needlework, Mr. -John. Me! and Miss Amy in Miss Rosalind’s room, that doesn’t know no -more than you do how to manage her. But I mustn’t give way,” the woman -cried, with an effort. “Do you know as the police are after him, Mr. -John? Do you know it was all along of him as Madam went away?” - -John Trevanion sprang from his chair. “Be silent, woman!” he cried; “how -dare you speak so to me?” - -“I’ve said it before, and I will again!” cried Russell--“a man not half -her age. Oh, it was a shame!--and out of a house like Highcourt--and a -lady that should know better, not a poor servant like them that are -sent out of the way at a moment’s notice when they go wrong. Don’t lift -your hand to me, Mr. John. Would you strike a woman, sir, and call -yourself a gentleman? And you that brought me here against my will when -I was happy at home. I won’t go out of the room till I have said my -say.” - -“No,” said John, with a laugh which was half rage, though the idea that -he was likely to strike Russell was a ludicrous exasperation. “No, as -you are a woman I can’t, unfortunately, knock you down, whatever -impertinence you may say.” - -“I am glad of that, sir,” said Russell, “for you looked very like it; -and I’ve served the Trevanions for years, though I don’t get much credit -for it, and I shouldn’t like to have to say as the lady of the house -forgot herself for a boy, and a gentleman of the house struck a woman. -I’ve too much regard for them to do that.” - -Here she paused to take breath, and then resumed, standing in an -attitude of defence against the door, whither John’s threatening aspect -had driven her: “You mark my words, sir,” cried Russell, “where that -young man is, Madam’s not far off. Miss Sophy, that has her wits about -her, she has seen her--and the others that is full of fancies they’ve -seen what they think is a ghost; and little Miss Amy, she is wrong in -the head with it. This is how I find things when I’m telegraphed for, -and brought out to a strange place, and then told as I’m not wanted. But -it’s Providence as wants me here. Mrs. Lennox--she always was soft-- I -don’t wonder at her being deceived; and, besides, she wasn’t on the -spot, and she don’t know. But, Mr. Trevanion, you were there all the -time. You know what goings-on there were. It wasn’t the doctor or the -parson Madam went out to meet, and who was there besides? Nobody but -this young man. When a woman’s bent on going wrong, she’ll find out the -way. You’re going to strike me again! but it’s true. It was him she met -every night, every night, out in the cold. And then he saw Miss -Rosalind, and he thought to himself--here’s a young one, and a rich -one, and far nicer than that old-- Mr. John! I know more than any of you -know, and I’ll put up with no violence, Mr. John!” - -John Trevanion’s words will scarcely bear repeating. He put her out of -the room with more energy than perhaps he ought to have employed with a -woman; and he bade her go to the devil with her infernal lies. Profane -speech is not to be excused, but there are times when it becomes mere -historical truth and not profanity at all. They were infernal lies, the -language and suggestion of hell even if--even if--oh, that a bleeding -heart should have to remember this!--even if they were true. John shut -the door of his room upon the struggling woman and came back to face -himself, who was more terrible still. Even if they were true! They -brought back in a moment a suggestion which had died away in his mind, -but which never had been definitely cast forth. His impulse when he had -seen this young Everard had been to take him by the collar and pitch him -forth, and refuse him permission even to breathe the same air: -“Dangerous fellow, hence; breathe not where princes are!” but then a -sense of confusion and uncertainty had come in and baffled him. There -was no proof, either, that Everard was the man, or that there was any -man. It was not Madam’s handwriting, but her husband’s, that had -connected the youth with Highcourt; and though he might have a thousand -faults, he did not look the cold-blooded villain who would make his -connection with one woman a standing ground upon which to establish -schemes against another. John Trevanion’s brow grew quite crimson as the -thought went through his mind. He was alone, and he was middle-aged and -experienced in the world; and two years ago many a troublous doubt, and -something even like a horrible certainty, had passed through his mind. -But there are people with whom it is impossible to associate shame. Even -if shame should be all but proved against them, it will not hold. When -he thought an evil thought of Madam--nay, when that thought had but a -thoroughfare through his mind against his will, the man felt his cheek -redden and his soul faint. And here, too, were the storm-clouds of that -catastrophe which was past, rolling up again, full of flame and wrath. -They had all been silent then, awestricken, anxious to hush up and pass -over, and let the mystery remain. But now this was no longer possible. A -bewildering sense of confusion, of a darkness through which he could not -make his way, of strange coincidences, strange contradictions, was in -John Trevanion’s mind. He was afraid to enter upon this maze, not -knowing to what conclusion it might lead him. And yet now it must be -done. - -Only a very short time after another knock came to his door, and -Rosalind entered, with an atmosphere about her of urgency and -excitement. She said, without any preface: - -“Uncle John, I have come to tell you what I have made up my mind to do. -Do you remember that in two days I shall be of age, and my own mistress? -In two days!” - -“My dear,” he said, “I hope you have not been under so hard a taskmaster -as to make you impatient to be free.” - -“Yes,” said Rosalind. “Oh, not a hard taskmaster; but life has been -hard, Uncle John! As soon as I am my own mistress I am going, Amy and I, -to--you know. I cannot rest here any longer. Amy will be safe; she can -have my money. But this cannot go on any longer. If we should starve, we -must find my mother. I know you will say she is not my mother. And who -else, then? She is all the mother I have ever known. And I have left her -these two years under a stain which she ought not to bear, and in misery -which she ought not to bear. Was it ever heard of before that a mother -should be banished from her children? I was too young to understand it -all at first; and I had no habit of acting for myself; and perhaps you -would have been right to stop me; but now--” - -“Certainly I should have stopped you. But, Rosalind, I have come myself -to a similar resolution,” he said. “It must all be cleared up. But not -by you, my dear, not by you. If there is anything to discover that is to -her shame--” - -“There is nothing, Uncle John.” - -“My dear, you don’t know how mysterious human nature is. There are fine -and noble creatures such as she is--as she is! don’t think I deny it, -Rosalind--who may have yet a spot, a stain, which a man like me may see -and grieve for and forgive, but you--” - -“Oh, Uncle John, say that a woman like me may wash away with tears, if -you like, but that should never, never be betrayed to the eyes of a -man!” - -He took her into his arms, weeping as she was, and he not far from it. -“Rosalind, perhaps yours is the truest way; but yet, as common people -think, and according to the way of the world--” - -“Which is neither your way nor mine,” cried the girl. - -“And you can say nothing to change my mind; I was too young at the time. -But now--if she has died,” Rosalind said, with difficulty swallowing -down the “climbing sorrow” in her throat, “she will know at least what -we meant. And if she is living there is no rest but with our mother for -Amy and me. And the child shall not suffer, Uncle John, for she shall -have what is mine.” - -“Rosalind, you are still in the absolute stage--you see nothing that can -modify your purposes. My dear, you should have had your mother to speak -to on this subject. There are two men here, Rosalind, to whom--have you -not some duty, some obligation? They both seem to me to be waiting--for -what, Rosalind?” - -Rosalind detached herself from her uncle’s arm. A crimson flush covered -her face. “Is it--dishonorable?” she said. - -In the midst of his emotion John Trevanion could not suppress a smile. -“That is, perhaps, a strong word.” - -“It would be dishonorable in a man,” she cried, lifting her eyes with a -hot color under them which seemed to scorch her. - -“It would be impossible in a man, Rosalind,” he said gravely; “the -circumstances are altogether different. And yet you too owe something to -Roland, who has loved you all his life, poor fellow, and to Rivers, who -has come here neglecting everything for your sake. I do not know,” he -added, in a harsher tone, “whether there may not be still another -claim.” - -“I think you are unjust, Uncle John,” she said, with tremulous dignity. -“And if it is as you say, these gentlemen have followed their own -inclinations, not mine. Am I bound because they have seen fit-- But that -would be slavery for a woman.” Then her countenance cleared a little, -and she added, “When you know all that is in my mind you will not -disapprove.” - -“I hope you will make a wise decision, Rosalind,” he said. “But at least -do nothing--make up your mind to do nothing--till the time comes.” He -spoke vaguely, and so did she, but in the excitement of their minds -neither remarked this in the other. For he had not hinted to her, nor -her to him, the possibility of some great new event which might happen -at any moment and change all plans and thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER LVII. - - -Rosalind left her uncle with the thrill of her resolution in all her -veins. She met, as she crossed the ante-room, Rivers, who had just come -in and was standing waiting for a reply to the petition to be admitted -to see her which he had just sent by a servant. She came upon him -suddenly while he stood there, himself wound up to high tension, full of -passion and urgency, feeling himself ill-used, and determined that now, -at last, this question should be settled. He had failed indeed in -pushing his suit by means of the mysterious stranger whom he had not -seen again; but this made him only return with additional vehemence to -his own claim, the claim of a man who had waited a year for his answer. -But when he saw Rosalind there came over him that instant softening -which is so apt to follow an unusual warmth of angry feeling, when we -are “wroth with those we love.” He thought at first that she had come to -him in answer to his message, granting all he asked by that gracious -personal response. “Rosalind!” he cried, putting out his hands. But next -moment his countenance reflected the blush in hers, as she turned to him -startled, not comprehending and shrinking from this enthusiastic -address. “I beg your pardon,” he said, crushing his hat in his hands. “I -was taken by surprise. Miss Trevanion, I had just sent to ask--” - -Rosalind was seized by a sort of helpless terror. She was afraid of him -and his passion. She said, “Uncle John is in his room. Oh, forgive me, -please! If it is me, will you wait--oh, will you be so kind as to wait -till Thursday? Everything will be settled then. I shall know then what I -have to do. Mr. Rivers, I am very sorry to give you so much trouble--” - -“Trouble!” he cried; his voice was almost inarticulate in the excess of -emotion. “How can you use such words to me? As if trouble had anything -to do with it; if you would send me to the end of the earth, so long as -it was to serve you, or give me one of the labors of Hercules-- Yes, I -know I am extravagant. One becomes extravagant in the state of mind in -which-- And to hear you speak of trouble--” - -“Mr. Rivers,” said Rosalind, humble in her sense of guilt, “I have a -great many things to think of. You don’t know how serious it is; but on -Thursday I shall be of age, and then I can decide. Come then, if you -will, and I will tell you. Oh, let me tell you on Thursday--not now!” - -“That does not sound very hopeful for me,” he said. “Miss Trevanion, -remember that I have waited a year for my answer--few men do that -without--without--” - -And then he paused, and looked at her with an air which was at once -fierce and piteous, defiant and imploring. And Rosalind shrank with a -sense of guilt, feeling that she had no right to hold him in suspense, -yet frightened by his vehemence, and too much agitated to know what to -say. - -“On Thursday,” she said, mechanically; “on Thursday-- You shall not -complain of me any more.” She held out her hand to him with a smile, -apologetic and deprecatory, which was very sweet, which threw him into a -bewilderment unspeakable. She was cruel without knowing it, without -intending it. She had, she thought, something to make up to this man, -and how could she do it but by kindness--by showing him that she was -grateful--that she liked and honored him? He went away asking himself a -thousand questions, going over and over her simple words, extracting -meanings from them of which they were entirely innocent, framing them at -last to the signification which he wished. He started from Bonport full -of doubt and uneasiness, but before he reached his hotel a foolish -elation had got the better of these sadder sentiments. He said to -himself that these words could have but one meaning. “You shall not -complain of me any more.” But if she cast him off after this long -probation he would have very good reason to complain. It was impossible -that she should prepare a refusal by such words; and, indeed, if she had -meant to refuse him, could she have postponed her answer again? Is it -not honor in a woman to say “No” without delay, unless she means to say -“Yes?” It is the only claim of honor upon her, who makes so many claims -upon the honor of men, to say “No,” if she means “No.” No one could -mistake that primary rule. When she said “Thursday,” was it not the last -assurance she could give before a final acceptance, and “You shall not -complain of me any more?” This is a consequence of the competitive -system in love which Mr. Ruskin evidently did not foresee, for Rosalind, -on the other hand, was right enough when she tried to assure herself -that she had not wished for his love, had not sought it in any way, that -she should be made responsible for its discomfiture. Rivers employed -his time of suspense in making arrangements for his departure. He was a -proud man, and he would not have it said that he had left Aix hastily in -consequence of his disappointment. In the evening he wrote some letters, -vaguely announcing a speedy return. “Perhaps almost as soon as you -receive this,” he said, always guarding against the possibility of a -sudden departure; and then he said to himself that such a thing was -impossible. This was how he spent the intervening days. He had almost -forgotten by this time, in the intensity of personal feeling, the -disappointment and shock to his pride involved in the fact that the lady -of the garden had appeared no more. - -In the meantime, while all this was going on, Reginald was out on the -shining water in a boat, which was the first thing the English boy -turned to in that urgent necessity for “something to do” which is the -first thought of his mind. He had taken Sophy with him condescendingly -for want of a better, reflecting contemptuously all the time on the -desertion of that beggar Hamerton, with whom he was no longer the first -object. But Sophy was by no means without advantages as a companion. He -sculled her out half a mile from shore with the intention of teaching -her how to row on the way back; but Sophy had made herself more amusing -in another way by that time, and he was willing to do the work while she -maintained the conversation. Sophy was nearly as good as Scheherazade. -She kept up her narrative, or series of narratives, with scarcely a -pause to take breath, for she was very young and very long-winded, with -her lungs in perfect condition, and her stories had this advantage, to -the primitive intelligence that is, that they were all true; which is to -say that they were all about real persons, and spiced by that natural -inclination to take the worst view of everything, which, unfortunately, -is so often justified by the results, and makes a story-teller piquant, -popular, and detested. Sophy had a great future before her in this way, -and in the meantime she made Reginald acquainted with everything, as -they both concluded, that he ought to know. She told him about Everard, -and the saving of Amy and Johnny, which he concluded to be a “plant,” -and “just like the fellow;” and about the encouragement Rosalind gave -him, at which Rex swore, to the horror, yet delight, of his little -sister, great, real oaths. And then the story quickened and the interest -rose as she told him about the apparitions, about what the children saw, -and, finally, under a vow of secrecy (which she had also administered to -Russell), what she herself saw, and the conclusion she had formed. When -she came to this point of her story, Reginald was too much excited even -to swear. He kept silence with a dark countenance, and listened, leaning -forward on his oars with a rapt attention that flattered Sophy. “I told -Uncle John,” cried the child, “and he asked me what I was going to do? -How could I do anything, Rex? I watched because I don’t believe in -ghosts, and I knew it could not be a ghost. But what could I do at my -age? And, besides, I did not actually see her so as to speak to her. I -only touched her as she passed.” - -“And you are sure it was--” The boy was older than Sophy, and understood -better. He could not speak so glibly of everything as she did. - -“Mamma? Yes, of course I am sure. I don’t take fits like the rest; I -always know what I see. Don’t you think Uncle John was the one to do -something about it, Rex? And he has not done anything. It could never be -thought that it was a thing for me.” - -“I’ll tell you what, Sophy,” said Rex, almost losing his oars in his -vehemence; “soon it’ll have to be a thing for me. I can’t let things go -on like this with all Aunt Sophy’s muddlings and Uncle John’s. The -children will be driven out of their senses; and Rosalind is just a -romantic-- I am the head of the family, and I shall have to interfere.” - -“But you are only seventeen,” said Sophy, her eyes starting from their -sockets with excitement and delight. - -“But I am the head of the house. John Trevanion may give himself as many -airs as he likes, but he is only a younger son. After all, it is I that -have got to decide what’s right for my family. I have been thinking a -great deal about it,” he cried. “If--if--Mrs. Trevanion is to come like -this frightening people out of their wits--” - -“Oh, Reginald,” cried Sophy, with a mixture of admiration and horror, -“how can you call mamma Mrs. Trevanion?” - -“That’s her name,” said the boy. His lips quivered a little, to do him -justice, and his face was darkly red with passion, which was scarcely -his fault, so unnatural were all the circumstances. “I am going to -insist that she should live somewhere, so that a fellow may say where -she lives. It’s awful when people ask you where’s your mother, not to be -able to say. I suppose she has enough to live on. I shall propose to let -her choose where she pleases, but to make her stay in one place, so that -she can be found when she is wanted. Amy could be sent to her for a bit, -and then the fuss would be over--” - -“But, Rex, you said we should lose all our money--” - -“Oh, bother!” cried the boy. “Who’s to say anything? Should I make a -trial and expose everything to take her money from Amy? (It isn’t so -very much you have, any of you, that I should mind.) I suppose even, if -I insisted, they might take a villa for her here or somewhere. And then -one could say she lived abroad for her health. That is what people do -every day. I know lots of fellows whose father, or their mother, or some -one, lives abroad for their health. It would be more respectable. It -would be a thing you could talk about when it was necessary,” Rex said. - -Sophy’s mind was scarcely yet open to this view of the question. “I wish -you had told me,” she said peevishly, “that one could get out of it like -that; for I should have liked to speak to mamma--” - -“I don’t know that we can get out of it like that. The law is very -funny; it may be impossible, perhaps. But, at all events,” said -Reginald, recovering his oars, and giving one great impulse forward with -all his strength, which made the boat shoot along the lake like a living -thing, “I know that I won’t let it be muddled any longer if I can help -it, and that I am going to interfere.” - - - - -CHAPTER LVIII. - - -Roland Hamerton did not find any trace of her. He had pledged himself -easily, in utter ignorance of all ways and means, to find her, knowing -nothing, neither how to set about such a search, or where he was likely -to meet with success in it. It is easy for a young man, in his fervor, -to declare that he is able to do anything for the girl he loves, and to -feel that in that inspiration he is sure to carry all before him. But -love will not trace the lost even when it is the agony of love for the -lost, and that passion of awful longing, anxiety, and fear which is, -perhaps, the most profound of all human emotions. The fact that he loved -Rosalind did not convert him into that sublimated and heroic version of -a detective officer which is to be found more often in fiction than -reality. He, too, went to all the hotels, as John Trevanion had done; he -walked about incessantly, looking at everybody he met, and trying hard, -in his bad French, to push cunning inquiries everywhere--inquiries which -he thought cunning, but which were in reality only very innocently -anxious, betraying his object in the plainest way. “A tall lady, -English, with remains of great beauty.” “Oui, monsieur, nous la -connaissons;” a dozen such lively responses were made to him, and he was -sent in consequence to wander about as many villas, to prowl in the -gardens of various hotels, rewarded by the sight of some fine -Englishwomen and some scarecrows, but never with the most distant -glimpse of the woman he sought. He did, however, meet and recognize -almost at every turn the young fellow whose appearances at Bonport had -been few since Rosalind’s repulse, but whom he had seen several times -in attendance upon Mrs. Lennox, and of whom he knew that he was -understood to have been seen in the village at Highcourt, presumably on -account of Rosalind, and was therefore a suitor too, and a rival. -Something indefinable in his air, though Roland did not know him -sufficiently to be a just judge, had increased at first the natural -sensation of angry scorn with which a young lover looks upon another man -who has presumed to lift his eyes to the same _objet adoré_; but -presently there arose in his mind something of that same sensation of -fellowship which had drawn him, on the first night of his arrival, -towards Rivers. They were in “the same box.” No doubt she was too good -for any of them, and Everard had not the sign and seal of the English -gentleman about him--the one thing indispensable; but yet there was a -certain brotherhood even in the rivalry. Roland addressed him at last -when he met him coming round one of the corners, where he himself was -posted, gazing blankly at an English lady pointed out to him by an -officious boatman from the lake. His gaze over a wall, his furtive -aspect when discovered, all required, he felt, explanation. “I think we -almost know each other,” he said, in a not unfriendly tone. Everard took -off his hat with the instinct of a man who has acquired such breeding as -he has in foreign countries, an action for which, as was natural, the -Englishman mildly despised him. “I have seen you, at least, often,” he -replied. And then Roland plunged into his subject. - -“Look here! You know the Trevanions, don’t you? Oh yes, I heard all -about it--the children and all that. I am a very old friend;” Roland -dwelt upon these words by way of showing that a stranger was altogether -out of competition with him in this respect at least. “There is a lady -in whom they are all--very much interested, to say the least, living -somewhere about here; but I don’t know where, and nobody seems to know. -You seem to be very well up to all the ways of the place; perhaps you -could help me. Ros-- I mean,” said Roland, with a cough to obliterate the -syllable--“they would all be very grateful to any one who would find--” - -“What,” said Everard, slowly, looking in Roland’s face, “is the lady’s -name?” - -It was the most natural question; and yet the one man put it with a -depth of significance which to a keener observer than Roland would have -proved his previous knowledge; while the other stood entirely -disconcerted, and not knowing how to reply. It was perfectly natural; -but somehow he had not thought of it as a probable question. And he was -not prepared with an answer. - -“Oh--ah--her name. Well, she is a kind of a relation, you know--and her -name would be--Trevanion.” - -“Oh, her name would be Trevanion? Is there supposed to be any chance -that she would change her name?” - -“Why do you ask such a question?” - -“I thought, by the way you spoke, as if there might be a doubt.” - -“No,” said Roland, after a moment, “I never thought-- I don’t think it’s -likely. Why should she change her name?” - -Everard answered with great softness, “I don’t know anything about it. -Something in your tone suggested the idea, but no doubt I am wrong. No, -I cannot say, all in a moment, that I am acquainted--” Here his want of -experience told like Roland’s. He was very willing, nay anxious, to -deceive, but did not know how. He colored, and made a momentary pause. -“But I will inquire,” he said, “if it is a thing that the--Trevanions -want to find out.” - -Roland looked at him with instinctive suspicion, but he did not know -what he suspected. He had no desire, however, to put this quest out of -his own hands into those of a man who might make capital of it as he -himself intended to do. He said hastily, “Oh, I don’t want to put you to -trouble. I think I am on the scent. If you hear anything, however, and -would come in and see me at the hotel--to-night.” - -The other looked at him with something in his face which Roland did not -understand. Was it a kind of sardonic smile? Was it offence? He ended -by repeating, “I will inquire,” and took off his hat again in that -Frenchified way. - -And Roland went on, unaided, somewhat discouraged, indeed, with his -inquiries. Sometimes he saw in the distance a figure in the crowd which -he thought he recognized, and hurried after it, but never with any -success. For either it was gone when he reached the spot, or turned out -to be one of the ordinary people about; for of course there were many -tall ladies wearing black to be seen about the streets of Aix, and most -of them English. He trudged about all that day and the next with a heavy -heart, his high hopes abandoning him, and the search seeming hopeless. -He became aware when night fell that he was not alone in his quest. -There drifted past him at intervals, hurried, flushed, and breathless, -with her cloak hanging from her shoulders, her bonnet blown back from -her head, her eyes always far in front of her, investigating every -corner, a woman so instinct with keen suspicion and what looked like a -thirst for blood that she attracted the looks even of the careless -passers-by, and was followed, till she outstripped him, by more than one -languid gendarme. Her purpose was so much more individual than she was -that, for a time, in the features of this human sleuth-hound he failed -to recognize Russell. But it was Russell, as he soon saw, with a mixture -of alarm and horror. It seemed to him that some tragic force of harm was -in this woman’s hand, and that while he wandered vaguely round and round -discovering nothing, she, grim with hatred and revenge, was on the -track. - - - - -CHAPTER LIX. - - -When John Trevanion questioned Everard, as already recorded, the young -man, though greatly disconcerted, had made him a very unexpected reply. -He had the boldness to say what was so near the truth that there was all -the assurance of conviction in his tone; and John, on his side, was -confounded. Everard had declared to him that there was a family -connection, a relationship, between himself and Mr. Trevanion, though, -on being more closely questioned, he declined to explain how it was; -that is, he postponed the explanation, saying that he could only make -the matter clear by reference to another relation, who could give him -the exact information. It was a bold thought, conceived at the moment, -and carried through with the daring of desperation. He felt, before it -was half said, that John Trevanion was impressed by the reality in his -tone, and that if he dared further, and told all his tale, the position -of affairs might be changed. But Rosalind’s reply to the sudden -declaration which in his boldness he had made, and to his vague, -ill-advised promises to reward her if she would listen to him, had -driven for some days everything out of his mind; and when he met Roland -Hamerton he was but beginning to recall his courage, and to say to -himself that there was still something which might be done, and that -things were not perhaps so hopeless as they seemed. From that brief -interview he went away full of a sudden resolution. If, after all, this -card was the one to play, did not he hold it in his hand? If it were by -means of the lost mother that Rosalind was to be won, it was by the same -means alone that he could prove to John Trevanion, all he had promised -to prove, and thus set himself right with Rosalind’s guardian. Thoughts -crowded fast upon him as he turned away, instinctively making a round to -escape Hamerton’s scrutiny. This led him back at length to the precincts -of the hotel, where he plunged among the shrubbery, passing round behind -the house, and entered by a small door which was almost hid by a clump -of laurels. A short stair led from this to a small, entirely secluded -apartment separated from the other part of the hotel. The room which -young Everard entered with a sort of authoritative familiarity was well -lighted with three large windows opening upon the garden, but seemed to -be a sort of receptacle for all the old furniture despised elsewhere. It -had but one occupant, who put down the book when Everard came in, and -looked up with a faint, inquiring smile. The reader does not need to be -told who was the banished woman who sat here, shut out and separated -from the external world. She had thought it wise, amid the risks of -travel, to call herself by the name he bore, and had been living here, -as everywhere, in complete retirement, before the arrival of the -Trevanions. The apartment which she occupied was cheap and quiet, one of -which recommendations was of weight with her in consequence of Edmund’s -expenses; the other for reasons of her own. She had changed greatly in -the course of these two years, not only by becoming very thin and worn, -but also from a kind of moral exhaustion which had taken the place of -that personal power and dignity which were once the prevailing -expression of her face. She had borne much in the former part of her -life without having the life itself crushed out of her; but her complete -transference to a strange world, her absorption in one sole subject of -interest which presented nothing noble, nothing elevated, and, finally, -the existence of a perpetual petty conflict in which she was always the -loser, a struggle to make a small nature into a great one, or, rather, -to deal with the small nature as if it were a great one, to attribute to -it finer motives than it could even understand, and to appeal with -incessant failure to generosities which did not exist--this had taken -the strength out of Mrs. Trevanion. Her face had an air of exhausted and -hopeless effort. She saw the young man approaching with a smile, which, -though faint, was yet one of welcome. To be ready to receive him -whenever he should appear, to be always ready and on the watch for any -gleam of higher meaning, to be dull to no better impulse, but always -waiting for the good--that was the part she had to play. But she was no -longer impatient, no longer eager to thrust him into her own world, to -convey to him her own thoughts. That she knew was an endeavor without -hope. And, as a matter of fact, she had little hope in anything. She had -done all that she knew how to do. If anything further were possible she -was unaware what it was; and her face, like her heart, was worn out. Yet -she looked up with what was not unlike a cheerful expectation. “Well, -Edmund?” she said. - -He threw down his hat on the table, giving emphasis to what he said. - -“I have brought you some news. I don’t know if you will like it or not, -or if it will be a surprise. The Trevanions are after you.” - -The smile faded away from her face, but seemed to linger pathetically in -her eyes as she looked at him and repeated, “After me!” with a start. - -“Yes. Of course all those visits and apparitions couldn’t be without -effect. You must have known that; and you can’t say I did not warn you. -They are moving heaven and earth--” - -“How can they do that?” she asked; and then, “You reproach me justly, -Edmund; not so much as I reproach myself. I was made to do it, and -frighten--my poor children.” - -“More than that,” he said, as if he took a pleasure in adding color to -the picture; “the little girl has gone all wrong in her head. She walks -in her sleep and says she is looking for her mother.” - -The tears sprang to Mrs. Trevanion’s eyes. “Oh, Edmund!” she said, “you -wring my heart; and yet it is sweet! My little girl! she does not forget -me!” - -“Children don’t forget,” he said gloomily. “I didn’t. I cried for you -often enough, but you never came to me.” - -She gave him once more a piteous look, to which the tears in her eyes -added pathos. “Not--till it was too late,” she said. - -“Not--till you were obliged; till you had no one else to go to,” said -he. “And you have not done very much for me since--nothing that you -could help. Look here! You can make up for that now, if you like; -there’s every opportunity now.” - -“What is it, Edmund?” She relapsed into the chair, which supplied a -sort of framework on which mind and body seemed alike to rest. - -Edmund drew a chair opposite to her, close to her, and threw himself -down in it. His hand raised to enhance his rhetoric was almost like the -threat of a blow. - -“Look here,” he repeated; “I have told you before all I feel about -Rosalind!” - -“And I have told you,” she said, with a faint, rising color, “that you -have no right to call her by that name. There is no sort of link between -Miss Trevanion and you.” - -“She does not think so,” he answered, growing red. “She has always felt -there was a link, although she didn’t know what. There are two other -fellows after her now. I know that one of them, and I rather think both -of them, are hunting for you, by way of getting a hold on Rosalind. One -of them asked me just now if I wouldn’t help him. Me! And that woman -that was nurse at Highcourt, that began all the mischief, is here. So -you will be hunted out whatever you do. And John Trevanion is at me, -asking me what had I to do with his brother? I don’t know how he knows, -but he does know. I’ve told him there was a family connection, but that -I couldn’t say what till I had consulted--” - -“You said _that_, Edmund? A--family connection!” - -“Yes, I did. What else could I say? And isn’t it true? Now, here are two -things you can do: one would be kind, generous, all that I don’t expect -from you; the other would, at least, leave us to fight fair. Look here! -I believe they would be quite glad. It would be a way of smoothing up -everything and stopping all sorts of scandal. Come up there with me -straight and tell them who I am; and tell Rosalind that you want her to -cast off the others and marry me. She will do whatever you tell her.” - -“Never, never, Edmund.” She had begun to shake her head, looking at him, -for some time before he would permit her voice to be heard. “Oh, ask me -anything but that!” - -“Anything but the only thing,” he said; “that is like you; that is -always the way. Can’t you see it would be a way of smoothing over -everything? It would free Rosalind--it would free them all; if she were -my--” - -She put out her hand to stop him. “No, Edmund, you must not say it. I -cannot permit it. That cannot be. You do not understand her, nor she -you. I can never permit it, even if--even if--” - -“Even if--? You mean to say if she were--fond of me--” - -Mrs. Trevanion uttered a low cry. “Edmund, I will rather go and tell -her, what I have told you--that you could never understand each -other--that you are different, wholly different--that nothing of the -kind could be--” - -He glared at her with a fierce rage, by which she was no longer -frightened, which she had seen before, but which produced in her -overwrought mind a flutter of the old, sickening misery which had fallen -into so hopeless a calm. “That is what you will do for me--when affairs -come to an issue!--that is all after everything you have promised, -everything you have said--that is all; but I might have known--” - -She made no reply. She was so subdued in her nature by all the hopeless -struggles of the past that she did not say a word in self-defence. - -“Then,” he said, rising up from his chair, throwing out his hands as -though putting her out of her place, “go! That’s the only other thing -you can do for me. Get out of this. Why stay till they come and drag you -out to the light and expose you--and me? If you won’t do the one thing -for me, do the other, and make no more mischief, for the love of -heaven--if you care for heaven or for love either,” he added, making a -stride towards the table and seizing his hat again. He did not, however, -rush away then, as seemed his first intention, but stood for a moment -irresolute, not looking at her, holding his hat in his hand. - -“Edmund,” she said, “you are always sorry afterwards when you say such -things to me.” - -“No,” he said, “I’m not sorry--don’t flatter yourself-- I mean every word -I say. You’ve been my worst enemy all my life. And since you’ve been -with me it’s been worst of all. You’ve made me your slave; you’ve -pretended to make a gentleman of me, and you’ve made me a slave. I have -never had my own way or my fling, but had to drag about with you. And -now, when you really could do me good--when you could help me to marry -the girl I like, and reform, and everything, you won’t. You tell me -point-blank you won’t. You say you’ll rather ruin me than help me. Do -you call that the sort of a thing a man has a right to expect--after all -I have suffered in the past?” - -“Edmund, I have always told you that Miss Trevanion--” - -“Rosalind!” he said. “Whatever you choose to call her, I shall call her -by her name. I have been everything with them till now, when this friend -of yours, this Uncle John, has come. And you can put it all right with -him, if you please, in a moment, and make my way clear. And now you say -you won’t! Oh, yes, I know you well enough. Let all those little things -go crazy and everybody be put out, rather than lend a real helping hand -to me--” - -“Edmund!” she called to him, holding out her hands as he rushed to the -door; but he felt he had got a little advantage and would not risk the -loss of it again. He turned round for a moment and addressed her with a -sort of solemnity. - -“To-morrow!” he said. “I’ll give you till to-morrow to think it over, -and then-- I’ll do for myself whatever I find it best to do.” - -For a minute or two after the closing of the door, which was noisy and -sharp, there was no further movement in the dim room. Mrs. Trevanion sat -motionless, even from thought. The framework of the chair supported her, -held her up, but for the moment, as it seemed to her, nothing else in -earth and heaven. She sat entirely silent, passive, as she had done so -often during these years, all her former habits of mind arrested. Once -she had been a woman of energy, to whom a defeat or discouragement was -but a new beginning, whose resources were manifold; but all these had -been exhausted. She sat in the torpor of that hopelessness which had -become habitual to her, life failing and everything in life. As she sat -thus an inner door opened, and another figure, which had grown strangely -like her own in the close and continual intercourse between them, came -in softly. Jane was noiseless as her mistress, almost as worn as her -mistress, moving like a shadow across the room. Her presence made a -change in the motionless atmosphere. Madam was no longer alone; and with -the softening touch of that devotion which had accompanied all her -wanderings for so great a portion of her life, there arose in her a -certain re-awakening, a faint flowing of the old vitality. There were, -indeed, many reasons why the ice should be broken and the stream resume -its flowing. She raised herself a little in her chair, and then she -spoke. “Jane,” she said; “Jane, I have news of the children--” - -“God bless them,” said Jane. She put the books down out of her hands, -which she had been pretending to arrange, and turned her face towards -her mistress, who said “Amen!” with a sudden gleam and lighting-up of -her pale face like the sky after a storm. - -“I have done very wrong,” said Mrs. Trevanion; “there is never -self-indulgence in the world but some one suffers for it. Jane, my -little Amy is ill. She dreams about her poor mother. She has taken to -walking in her sleep.” - -“Well, Madam, that’s no great harm. I have heard of many children who -did--” - -“But not through--oh, such selfish folly as mine! I have grown so weak, -such a fool! And they have sent for Russell, and Russell is here. You -may meet her any day--” - -“Russell!” Jane said, with an air of dismay, clasping her hands; “then, -Madam, you must make up your mind what you will do, for Russell is not -one to be balked. She will find us out.” - -“Why should I fear to be found out?” said Mrs. Trevanion, with a faint -smile. “No one now can harm me. Jane, everything has been done that can -be done to us. I do not fear Russell or any one. And sometimes it seems -to me that I have been wrong all along. I think now I have made up my -mind--” - -“To what? oh, to what, Madam?” Jane cried. - -“I am not well,” said Mrs. Trevanion; “I am only a shadow of myself. I -am not at all sure but perhaps I may be going to die. No, no-- I have no -presentiments, Jane. It is only people who want to live who have -presentiments, and life has few charms for me. But look at me; you can -see through my hands almost. I am dreadfully tired coming up those -stairs. I should not be surprised if I were to die.” - -She said this apologetically, as if she were putting forth a plea to -which perhaps objections might be made. - -“You have come through a deal, Madam,” said Jane, with the -matter-of-fact tone of her class. “It is no wonder if you are thin; you -have had a great deal of anxiety. But trouble doesn’t kill.” - -“Sometimes,” said her mistress, with a smile, “in the long run. But I -don’t say I am sure. Only, if that were so--there would be no need to -deny myself.” - -“You will send for the children and Miss Rosalind.” Jane clasped her -hands with a cry of anticipation in which her whole heart went forth. - -“That would be worth dying for,” said Madam, “to have them all peaceably -for perhaps a day or two. Ah! but I would need to be very bad before we -could do that; and I am not ill, not that I know. I have thought of -something else, Jane. It appears that they have found out, or think they -have found out, that I am here. I cannot just steal away again as I did -before. I will go to them and see them all. Ah, don’t look so pleased; -that probably means that we shall have to leave afterwards at once. -Unless things were to happen so well, you know,” she said, with a smile, -“as that I should just really--die there; which would be ideal--but -therefore not to be hoped for.” - -“Oh, Madam,” said Jane, with a sob, “you don’t think, when you say -that--” - -“Of you, my old friend? But I do. You would be glad to think, after a -while, that I had got over it all. And what could happen better to me -than that I should die among my own? I am of little use to Edmund--far -less than I hoped. Perhaps I had no right to hope. One cannot give up -one’s duties for years, and then take them back again. God forgive me -for leaving him, and him for all the faults that better training might -have saved him from. All the tragedy began in that, and ends in that. I -did wrong, and the issue is--this.” - -“So long ago, Madam--so long ago. And it all seemed so simple.” - -“To give up my child for his good, and then to be forced to give up my -other children, not for their good or mine? I sometimes wonder how it -was that I never told John Trevanion, who was always my friend. Why did -I leave Highcourt so, without a word to any one? It all seems confused -now, as if I might have done better. I might have cleared myself, at -least; I might have told them. I should like to give myself one great -indulgence, Jane, before I die.” - -“Madam!” Jane cried, with a panic which her words belied, “I am sure -that it is only fancy; you are not going to die.” - -“Perhaps,” said her mistress; “I am not sure at all. I told you so; but -only I should not be surprised. Whether it is death or whether it is -life, something new is coming. We must be ghosts no longer; we must come -back to our real selves, you and I, Jane. We will not let ourselves be -hunted down, but come out in the eye of day. It would be strange if -Russell had the power to frighten me. And did I tell you that Reginald -is here, too, and young Roland Hamerton, who was at Highcourt that -night? They are all gathered together again for the end of the tragedy, -Jane.” - -“Oh, Madam,” cried Jane, “perhaps for setting it all right.” - -Her mistress smiled somewhat dreamily. “I do not see how that can be. -And, even if it were so, it will not change the state of affairs. But we -are not going to allow ourselves to be found out by Russell,” she added, -with a curious sense of the ludicrous. The occasion was not gay, and yet -there was something natural, almost a sound of amusement, in the laugh -with which she spoke. Jane looked at her wistfully, shaking her head. - -“When I think of all that you have gone through, and that you can laugh -still!--but perhaps it is better than crying,” Jane said. - -Mrs. Trevanion nodded her head in assent, and there was silence in the -dim room where these two women spent their lives. It gave her a certain -pleasure to see Jane moving about. There was a sort of lull of painful -sensation, a calm, and disinclination for any exertion on her own part; -a mood in which it was grateful to see another entirely occupied with -her wants; anxious only to invent more wants for her, and means of doing -her service. In the languor of this quiet it was not wonderful that Mrs. -Trevanion should feel her life ebbing away. She began to look forward to -the end of the tragedy with a pleased acquiescence. She had yielded to -her fate at first, understanding it to be hopeless to strive against it; -with, perhaps, a recoil from actual contact with the scandal and the -shame which was as much pride as submission; but at that time her -strength was not abated, nor any habit of living lost. Now that period -of anguish seemed far off, and she judged herself and her actions not -without a great pity and understanding, but yet not without some -disapproval. She thought over it all as she sat lying back in the great -chair, with Jane moving softly about. She would not repeat the decisive -and hasty step she had once taken. She could not now, alas, believe in -the atonement which she then thought might still be practicable in -respect to the son whom she had given up in his childhood; nor did she -think that it was well, as she had done then, to abandon everything -without a word--to leave her reputation at the mercy of every -evil-speaker. To say nothing for herself, to leave her dead husband’s -memory unassailed by any defence she could put forth, and to cut short -the anguish of parting, for her children as well as for herself, had -then seemed to her the best. And she had fondly thought, with what she -now called vanity and the delusion of self-regard, that, by devoting -herself to him who was the cause of all her troubles, she might make up -for the evils which her desertion of him had inflicted. These were -mistakes, she recognized now, and must not be repeated. “I was a fool,” -she said to herself softly, with a realization of the misery of the past -which was acute, yet dim, as if the sufferer had been another person. -Jane paused at the sound of her voice, and came towards her--“Madam, did -you speak?” - -“No, except to myself. My faithful Jane, you have suffered everything -with me. We are not going to hide ourselves any longer,” she replied. - - - - -CHAPTER LX. - - -A resolution thus taken is not, however, strong enough to overcome the -habits which have grown with years. Mrs. Trevanion had been so long in -the background that she shrank from the idea of presenting herself again -to what seemed to her the view of the world. She postponed all further -steps with a conscious cowardice, at which, with faint humor, she was -still able to smile. - -“We are two owls,” she said. “Jane, we will make a little reconnaissance -first in the evening. There is still a moon, though it is a little late, -and the lake in the moonlight is a fine sight.” - -“But, Madam, you were not thinking of the lake,” said Jane. - -“No,” her mistress said; “the sight of a roof and four walls within -which are--that is more to you and me than the most beautiful scenery in -the world. And to think for how many years I had nothing to do but to -walk from my room to the nursery to see them all!” - -Jane shook her head with silent sympathy. “And it will be so again,” she -said, soothingly, “when Mr. Rex is of age. I have always said to myself -it would come right then.” - -It was now Madam’s turn to shake her head. The smile died away from her -face. “I would rather not,” she said, hurriedly, “put him to that proof. -It would be a terrible test to put a young creature to. Oh, no, no, -Jane! If he failed, how could I bear it?--or did for duty what should be -done for love? No, no; the boy must not be put to such a test.” - -In the evening she carried out her idea of making a reconnaissance. She -set out when the moon was rising in a vaporous autumnal sky, clearing -slowly as the light increased. Madam threw back the heavy veil which she -usually wore, and breathed in the keen, sweet air with almost a pang of -pleasure. She grasped Jane’s arm as they drove slowly round the tufted -mound upon which the house of Bonport stood; then, as the coachman -paused for further instructions in the shade of a little eminence on the -farther side, she whispered breathlessly that she would walk a little -way, and see it nearer. They got out, accordingly, both mistress and -maid, tremulous with excitement. All was so still; not a creature about; -the lighted windows shining among the trees; there seemed no harm in -venturing within the gate, which was open, in ascending the slope a -little way. Mrs. Trevanion had begun to say faintly, half to herself, -half to her companion, “This is vanity; it is no use,” when, suddenly, -her grasp upon Jane’s arm tightened so that the faithful maid had to -make an effort not to cry out. “What is that?” she said, in a shrill -whisper, at Jane’s ear. It was nothing more than a little speck, but it -moved along under the edge of the overhanging trees, with evident life -in it; a speck which, as it emerged into the moonlight, became of a -dazzling whiteness, like a pale flame gliding across the solid darkness. -They both stood still for a moment in awe and wonder, clinging to each -other. Then Madam forsook her maid’s arm, and went forward with a swift -and noiseless step very different from her former lingering. Jane -followed, breathless, afraid, not capable of the same speed. No doubt -had been in Mrs. Trevanion’s mind from the first. The night air lifted -now and then a lock of the child’s hair, and blew cold through her long, -white night-dress, but she went on steadily towards the side of the -lake. Once more Amy was absorbed in her dream that her mother was -waiting for her there; and, and unconscious, wrapped in her sleep, had -set out to find the one great thing wanting in her life. The mother -followed her, conscious of nothing save a great throbbing of head and -heart. Thus they went on till the white breadth of the lake, flooded -with moonlight, lay before them. Then, for the first time, Amy wavered. -She came to a pause; something disturbed the absorption of her state, -but without awaking her. “Mamma,” she said, “where are you, mamma?” - -“I am here, my darling.” Mrs. Trevanion’s voice was choked, and scarcely -audible, in the strange mystery of this encounter. She dared not clasp -her child in her arms, but stood trembling, watching every indication, -terrified to disturb the illusion, yet hungering for the touch of the -little creature who was her own. Amy’s little face showed no surprise, -its lines softened with a smile of pleasure; she put out her cold hand -and placed it in that which trembled to receive it. It was no wonder to -Amy, in her dream, to put her hand into her mother’s. She gave herself -up to this beloved guidance without any surprise or doubt, and obeyed -the impulse given her without the least resistance, with a smile of -heavenly satisfaction on her face. All Amy’s troubles were over when her -hand was in her mother’s hand. Nor was her little soul, in its soft -confusion and unconsciousness, aware of any previous separation, or any -transport of reunion. She went where her mother led, calm as if that -mother had never been parted from her. As for Mrs. Trevanion, the tumult -of trouble and joy in her soul is impossible to describe. She made an -imperative gesture to Jane, who had come panting after her, and now -stood half stupefied in the way, only prevented by that stupor of -astonishment from bursting out into sobs and cries. Her mistress could -not speak; her face was not visible in the shadow as she turned her back -upon the lake which revealed this wonderful group fully against its -shining background. There was no sound audible but the faint stir of the -leaves, the plash of the water, the cadence of her quick breathing. Jane -followed in an excitement almost as overpowering. There was not a word -said. Mrs. Trevanion turned back and made her way through the trees, -along the winding path, with not a pause or mistake. It was dark among -the bushes, but she divined the way, and though both strength and breath -would have failed her in other circumstances, there was no sign of -faltering now. The little terrace in front of the house, to which they -reached at last, was brilliant with moonlight. And here she paused, the -child standing still in perfect calm, having resigned her very soul into -her mother’s hands. - -Then, for the first time, a great fainting and trembling seized upon -her. She held out her disengaged hand to Jane. “What am I to do?” she -said, with an appeal to which Jane, trembling, could give no reply. The -closed doors, the curtained windows, were all dark. A momentary struggle -rose in Mrs. Trevanion’s mind, a wild impulse to carry the child away, -to take her into her bosom, to claim her natural rights, if never again, -yet for this night--mingled with a terror that seemed to take her senses -from her, lest the door should suddenly open, and she be discovered. Her -strength forsook her when she most wanted it. Amy stood still by her -side, without a movement, calm, satisfied, wrapped in unconsciousness, -knowing nothing save that she had attained her desire, feeling neither -cold nor fear in the depth of her dream. - -“Madam,” said Jane, in an anxious whisper, “the child will catch her -death. I’d have carried her. She has nothing on but her nightdress. She -will catch her death.” - -This roused the mother in a moment, with the simplest but most profound -of arguments. She bade Jane knock at the door, and, stooping over Amy, -kissed her and blessed her. Then she transferred the little hand in hers -to that of her faithful maid. A shiver passed through the child’s frame, -but she permitted herself to be led to the door. Jane was not so -self-restrained as her mistress. She lifted the little girl in her arms -and began to chafe and rub her feet. The touch, though was warm and -kind, woke the little somnambulist, as the touch of the cold water had -done before. She gave a scream and struggled out of Jane’s arms. - -And then there was a great sound of movement and alarm from the house. -The door was flung open and Rosalind rushed out and seized Amy in her -arms. She was followed by half the household, the servants hurrying out -one after another; and there arose a hurried tumult of questions in the -midst of which Jane stole away unnoticed and escaped among the bushes, -like her mistress. Mrs. Trevanion stood quite still supporting herself -against a tree while all this confused commotion went on. She -distinguished Russell, who came out and looked so sharply about among -the dark shrubs that for a moment she felt herself discovered, and John -Trevanion, who appeared with a candle in his hand, lifting it high above -his head, and inquiring who it was that had brought the child back. -John’s face was anxious and full of trouble; and behind him came a tall -boy, slight and fair, who said there was nobody, and that Amy must have -come back by herself. Then Mrs. Lennox came out with a shawl over her -head, the flickering lights showing her full, comfortable person--“Who -is it, John? Is there anybody? Oh, come in then, come in; it is a cold -night, and the child must be put to bed.” All of them stood about in -their individuality, as she had left them, while she looked on in the -darkness under the rustling boughs, invisible, her eyes sometimes -blurred with moisture, a smile growing about her mouth. They had not -changed, except the boy--her boy! She kept her eyes on his face, through -the thick shade of the leaves and the flickering of the candles. He was -almost a man, God bless him--a slight mustache on his upper lip, his -hair darker--and so tall, like the best of the Trevanions-- God bless -him! But no, no, he must not be put to that test--never to that test. -She would not permit it, she said to herself, with a horrible sensation -in her heart, which she did not put into words, that he could not bear -it. She did not seem able to move from the support of her tree even -after the door was closed and all was silent again. Jane, in alarm, -groped about the bushes till she had found her mistress, but did not -succeed in leading her away. “A little longer,” she said, faintly. After -a while a large window on the other side of the door opened and John -Trevanion came out again into the moonlight, walking up and down on the -terrace with a very troubled face. By and by another figure appeared, -and Rosalind joined him. “I came to tell you she is quite composed -now--going to sleep again,” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, something is -going to happen; it is coming nearer and nearer. I am sure that, either -living or dead, Amy has seen mamma.” - -“My dear, all these agitations are too much for you,” said John -Trevanion. “I think I must take you away.” - -“Uncle John, it is not agitation. I was not agitated to-night; I was -quite at ease, thinking about--oh, thinking about very different things; -I am ashamed of myself when I remember how little I was thinking. -Russell is right, and I was to blame.” - -“My dear, I believe there is a safeguard against bodily ailments in that -condition. We must look after her better again.” - -“But she has seen mamma, Uncle John!” - -“Rosalind, you are so full of sense--” - -“What has sense to do with it?” she cried. “Do you think the child came -back by herself? And yet there was no one with her--no one. Who else -could have led her back? Mamma took away her hand and she awoke. Uncle -John, none of you can find her; but if she is not dead--and you say she -is not dead--my mother must be here.” - -Jane had dropped upon her knees, and was keeping down by force, with her -face pressed against her mistress’s dress, her sobs and tears. But Mrs. -Trevanion clung to her tree and listened and made no sound. There was a -smile upon her face of pleasure that was heartrending, more pitiful than -pain. - -“My dear Rosalind,” said John, in great distress, “my dearest girl! I -have told you she is not dead. And if she is here we shall find her. We -are certain to find her. Rosalind, if _she_ were here, what would she -say to you? Not to agitate and excite yourself, to try to be calm, to -wait. My dear,” he said, with a tremble in his voice, “your mother would -never wish to disturb your life; she would like you to be--happy; she -would like you--you know--your mother--” - -It appeared that he became incoherent, and could say no more. - -The house was closed again and all quiet before Jane, who had been in -despair, could lead Mrs. Trevanion away. She yielded at length from -weakness; but she did not hear what her faithful servant said to her. -Her mind had fallen, or rather risen, into a state of semi-conscious -exaltation, like the ecstasy of an ascetic, as her delicate and fragile -form grew numb and powerless in the damp and cold. - -“Did you think any one could stand and hear all that and never make a -sign?” she said. “Did you see her face, Jane? It was like an angel’s. I -think that must be her window with the light in it. And he said her -mother-- John was always my friend. He said her mother-- Where do you -want me to go? I should like to stay in the porch and die there -comfortably, Jane. It would be sweet; and then there could be no more -quarrelling or questions, or putting any one to the test. No test! no -test! But dying there would be so easy. And Sophy Lennox would never -forbid it. She would take me in, and lay me on her bed, and bury -me--like a good woman. I am not unworthy of it. I am not a bad woman, -Jane.” - -“Oh, Madam,” Jane cried, distracted, “do you know the carriage is -waiting all this time? And the people of the hotel will be frightened. -Come back, for goodness sake, come back!” - -“The carriage,” she said, with a wondering air. “Is it the Highcourt -carriage, and are we going home?” - - - - -CHAPTER LXI. - - -The day had come which Rosalind had looked forward to as the decisive -moment. The day on which her life of submission was to be over, her -independent action to begin. But to Rivers it was a day of almost -greater import, the day on which he was to know, so far as she was -concerned, what people call his fate. It was about noon when he set out -from Aix, at a white heat of excitement, to know what was in store for -him. He walked, scarcely conscious what he trod on, along the -commonplace road; everything appeared to him as through a mist. His -whole being was so absorbed in what was about to happen that at last his -mind began to revolt against it. To put this power into the hands of a -girl--a creature without experience or knowledge, though with all the -charms which his heart recognized; to think that she, not much more than -a child in comparison with himself, should thus have his fate in her -hands, and keep his whole soul in suspense, and be able to determine -even the tenor of his life. It was monstrous, it was ridiculous, yet -true. If he left Bonport accepted, his whole career would be altered; if -not-- There was a nervous tremor in him, a quiver of disquietude, which -he was not able conquer. To talk of women as wanting votes or freedom, -when they had in their hands such unreasonable, such ridiculous, and -monstrous power as this! His mind revolted though his heart obeyed. She -would not, it was possible, be herself aware of the full importance of -the decision she was about to make; and yet upon that decision his whole -existence would turn. A great deal has been said about the subduing -power of love, yet it was maddening to think that thus, in spite of -reason and every dictate of good sense, the life of a man of high -intelligence and mature mind should be at the disposal of a girl. Even -while he submitted to that fate he felt in his soul the revolt against -it. To young Roland it was natural and beautiful that it should be so, -but to Rivers it was not beautiful at all; it was an inconceivable -weakness in human nature--a thing scarcely credible when you came to -think of it. And yet, unreasonable as it was, he could not free himself -or assert his own independence. He was almost glad of this indignant -sentiment as he hurried along to know his fate. When he reached the -terrace which surrounded the house, looking back before he entered, he -saw young Everard coming in at the gate below with an enormous bouquet -in his hand. What were the flowers for? Did the fool mean to propitiate -her with flowers? or had he--good heavens! was it possible to conceive -that he had acquired a right to bring presents to Rosalind? This idea -seemed to fill his veins with fire. The next moment he had entered into -the calm of the house, which, so far as external appearances went, was -so orderly, so quiet, thrilled by no excitement. He could have borne -noise and confusion better. The stillness seemed to take away his -breath. - -And in another minute Rosalind was standing before him. She came so -quickly that she must have been looking for him. There was an alarmed -look in her eyes, and she, too, seemed breathless, as if her heart were -beating more quickly than usual. Her lips were apart, as if already in -her mind she had begun to speak, not waiting for any question from him. -All this meant, must mean, a participation in his excitement. What was -she going to say to him? It was in the drawing-room, the common -sitting-room, with its windows open to the terrace, whence any one -wandering about looking at the view, as every fool did, might step in at -any moment and interrupt the conference. All this he was conscious of -instantaneously, finding material in it both for the wild hope and the -fierce despite which had been raging in him all the morning--to think -not only that his fate was in this girl’s hands, but that any vulgar -interruption, any impertinent caller, might interfere! And yet what did -that matter if all was to go well? - -“Mr. Rivers,” Rosalind said at once, with an eagerness which was full of -agitation, “I have asked you to come--to tell you I am afraid you will -be angry. I almost think you have reason to be angry. I want to tell -you; it has not been my fault.” - -He felt himself drop down from vague, sunlit heights of expectation, -down, down, to the end of all things, to cold and outer darkness, and -looked at her blankly in the sternness and paleness of a disappointment -all the greater that he had said to himself he was prepared for the -worst. He had hoped to cheat fate by arming himself with that -conviction; but it did not stand him in much stead. It was all he could -do to speak steadily, to keep down the impulse of rising rage. “This -beginning,” he said, “Miss Trevanion, does not seem very favorable.” - -“Oh, Mr. Rivers! If I give you pain I hope you will forgive me. Perhaps -I have been thoughtless-- I have so much to think of, so much that has -made me unhappy--and now it has all come to a crisis.” - -Rivers felt that the smile with which he tried to receive this, and -reply to her deprecating, anxious looks, was more like a scowl than a -smile. “If this is so,” he said, “I could not hope that my small affair -should dwell in your mind.” - -“Oh, do not say so. If I have been thoughtless it is not--it is not,” -cried Rosalind, contradicting herself in her haste, “for want of -thought. And when I tell you I have made up my mind, that is scarcely -what I mean. It is rather that one thing has taken possession of me, -that I cannot help myself. If you will let me tell you--” - -“Tell me that you have resolved to make another man happy and not me? -That is very gracious, condescending,” he cried, scarcely able to keep -control of himself; “but perhaps, Miss Trevanion--” - -“It is not that,” she cried, “it is not that. It is something which it -will take a long time to tell.” She came nearer to him as she spoke, and -putting out her hand touched his arm timidly. The agitation in his face -filled her with grief and self-reproach. “Oh,” she said, “forgive me if -I have given you pain! When you spoke to me at the Elms, you would not -let me answer you; and when you came here my mind was full--oh, full--so -that I could not think of anything else.” - -He broke into a harsh laugh. “You do me too much honor, Miss Trevanion; -perhaps I am not worthy of it. A story of love when it is not one’s own -is-- Bah! what a savage I am! and you so kindly condescending, so sorry -to give me pain! Perhaps,” he cried, more and more losing the control of -himself, “you may think it pleasant to drag a man like me at your -chariot-wheels for a year; but I scarcely see the jest. You think, -perhaps, that for a man to stake his life on the chance of a girl’s -favor is nothing--that to put all one’s own plans aside, to postpone -everything, to suspend one’s being--for the payment of--a smile--” He -paused for breath. He was almost beside himself with the sense of -wrong--the burning and bitterness that was in his mind. He had a right -to speak; a man could not thus be trifled with and the woman escape -scot-free. - -Rosalind stood, looking at him, turning from red to pale, alarmed, -bewildered, overcome. How was she, a girl hemmed in by all the -precautions of gentle life, to know what was in the heart of a man in -the bitterness of his disappointment and humiliation? Sorry to have -given him pain! that was all she had thought of. But it had never -occurred to her that the pain might turn to rage and bitterness, and -that instead of the pathos of a rejected lover, she might find herself -face to face with the fury of a man who felt himself outraged, and to -whom it had been a matter of resentment even that she, a slight girl, -should have the disposal of his fate. She turned away to leave him -without a word. But feeling something in her that must be spoken, paused -a moment, holding her head high. - -“I think you have forgotten yourself,” she said, “but that is for you to -judge. You have mistaken me, however, altogether, all through. What I -meant to explain to you was something different--oh, very different. But -there is no longer any room for that. And I think we have said enough to -each other, Mr. Rivers.” He followed her as she turned towards the door. -He could not let her go, neither for love nor for hate. And by this time -he began to see that he had gone too far; he followed her, entreating -her to pause a moment, in a changed and trembling voice. But just then -there occurred an incident which brought all his fury back. Young -Everard, whom he had seen on the way, and whose proceedings were so -often awkward, without perception, instead of entering in the ordinary -way, had somehow strayed on to the terrace with his bouquet, perhaps -because no one had answered his summons at the door, perhaps from a -foolish hope that he might be allowed to enter by the window, as Mrs. -Lennox, in her favor for him, had sometimes permitted him to do. He now -came in sight, hesitating, in front of the open window. Rosalind was too -much excited to think of ordinary rules. She was so annoyed and startled -by his appearance that she made a sudden imperative movement of her -hand, waving him away. It was made in utter intolerance of his -intrusion, but it seemed to Rivers like the private signal of a mutual -understanding too close for words, as the young fellow’s indiscretion -appeared to him the evidence of privileges only to be accorded to a -successful lover. He stopped short with the prayer for pardon on his -lips, and bursting once more into a fierce laugh of fury, cried, “Ah, -here we have the explanation at last!” - -Rosalind made no reply. She gave him a look of supreme indignation and -scorn, and left him without a word--left him in possession of the -field--with the other, the accepted one, the favored lover--good -heavens!--standing, hesitating, in his awkward way, a shadow against the -light. Rivers had come to a point at which the power of speech fails. It -was all he could do to keep himself from seizing the bouquet and -flinging it into the lake, and the bearer after it. But what was the -use? If she, indeed, loved this fellow, there could be nothing further -said. He turned round with furious impatience, and flung open the door -into the ante-room--to find himself, breathing fire and flame as he was, -and bearing every sign of his agitation in his face, in the midst of the -family party streaming in from different quarters, for luncheon, all in -their ordinary guise. For luncheon! at such a moment, when the mere -outside appearances of composure seemed impossible to him, and his blood -was boiling in his veins. - -“Why, here is Rivers,” said John Trevanion, “at a good moment; we are -just going to lunch, as you see.” - -“And I am going away from Aix,” said Rivers, with a sharpness which he -felt to be like a gun of distress. - -“Going away! that is sudden; but so much the more reason to sit down -with us once more. Come, we can’t let you go.” - -“Oh no, impossible to let you go, Mr. Rivers, without saying good-bye,” -said the mellow voice of Mrs. Lennox. “What a good thing we all arrived -in time. The children and Rosalind would have been so disappointed to -miss you. And though we are away from home, and cannot keep it as we -ought, this is a little kind of feast, you know, for it is Rosalind’s -birthday; so you must stay and drink her health. Oh, and here is Mr. -Everard too. Tell him to put two more places directly, Sophy. And how -did you know it was Rosalind’s birthday, Mr. Everard? What a magnificent -bouquet! Come in, come in; we cannot let you go. You must drink -Rosalind’s health on such an important day.” - -Rivers obeyed, as in a dream; he was exhausted with his outbreak, -remorseful, beginning to wonder whether, after all, _that_ was the -explanation? Rosalind came in alone after the rest. She was very pale, -as if she had suffered too, and very grave; not a smile on her face in -response to all the smiles around. For, notwithstanding the excitement -and distress in the house, the family party, on the surface, was -cheerful enough, smiling youthfulness and that regard for appearances -which is second nature carrying it through. The dishes were handed round -as usual, a cheerful din of talk arose; Rex had an appetite beyond all -satisfaction, and even John Trevanion--ill-timed as it all seemed--bore -a smiling face. As for Mrs. Lennox, her voice ran on with scarcely a -pause, skimming over those depths with which she was totally -unacquainted. “And are you really going away, Mr. Rivers?” she said. -“Dear me, I am very sorry. How we shall miss you. Don’t you think we -shall miss Mr. Rivers dreadfully, Rosalind? But to be sure you must want -to see your own people, and you must have a great deal of business to -attend to after being so long away. We are going home ourselves very -soon. Eh! What is that? Who is it? What are you saying, John? Oh, some -message for Rosalind, I suppose.” - -There was a commotion at the farther end of the room, the servants -attempting to restrain some one who forced her way in, in spite of them, -calling loudly upon John Trevanion. It was Russell, flushed and wild--in -her out-door clothes, her bonnet half falling off her head, held by the -strings only, her cloak dropping from her shoulders. She pushed her way -forward to John Trevanion at the foot of the table. “Mr. John,” she -cried, panting, “I’ve got on the track of her! I told you it was no -ghost. I’ve got on the tracks of her; and there’s some here could tell -you more than me.” - -“What is she talking about? Oh, I think the woman must have gone mad, -John? She thinks since we brought her here that she may say anything. -Send her away, send her away.” - -“I’ll not be sent away,” cried Russell. “I’ve come to do my duty to the -children, and I’ll do it. Mr. John, I tell you I am on her tracks, and -there’s two gentlemen here that can tell you all about her. Two, the -young one and another. Didn’t I tell you?” The woman was intoxicated -with her triumph. “That one with the gray hair, that’s a little more -natural, like her own age--and this one,” cried the excited woman, -sharply, striking Everard on the shoulder, “that ran off with her. And -everything I ever said is proved true.” - -Rivers rose to his feet instinctively as he was pointed out, and stood, -asking with wonder, “What is it? What does she mean? What have I done?” -Everard, who had turned round sharply when he was touched, kept his -seat, throwing a quick, suspicious glance round him. John Trevanion had -risen too, and so did Rex, who seized his former nurse by the arm and -tried to drag her away. The boy was furious. “Be off with you, you ---- or -I’ll drag you out,” he cried, crimson with passion. - -At this moment, when the whole party was in commotion, the wheels of a -carriage sounded in the midst of the tumult outside, and a loud knocking -was heard at the door. - - - - -CHAPTER LXII. - - -IT was difficult to explain the impulse which drew them one after -another into the ante-room. On ordinary occasions it would have been the -height of bad manners; and there was no reason, so far as most of the -company knew, why common laws should be postponed to the exigencies of -the occasion. John Trevanion hurried out first of all, and Rosalind -after him, making no apology. Then Mrs. Lennox, with a troubled face, -put forth her excuses--“I am sure I beg your pardon, but as they seem to -be expecting somebody, perhaps I had better go and see--” Sophy, who had -devoured Russell’s communications with eyes dancing with excitement, had -slipped from her seat at once and vanished. Rex, with a moody face and -his hands in his pockets, strolled to the door, and stood there, leaning -against the opening, divided between curiosity and disgust. The three -men who were rivals alone remained, looking uneasily at each other. They -were all standing up, an embarrassed group, enemies, yet driven together -by stress of weather. Everard was the first to move; he tried to find an -outlet, looking stealthily from one door to another. - -“Don’t you think,” he said at last, in a tremulous voice, “that if there -is--any family bother--we had better--go away?” - -“I suppose,” said Roland Hamerton, with white lips, “it must be -something about Mrs. Trevanion.” And he too pushed forward into the -ante-room, too anxious to think of politeness, anxious beyond measure to -know what Rosalind was about to do. - -A little circular hall, with a marble floor, was between this ante-room -and the door. The sound of the carriage driving up, the knocking, the -little pause while a servant hurried through to open, gave time for all -these secondary proceedings. Then there was again an interval of -breathless expectation. Mrs. Lennox’s travelling servant was a stranger, -who knew nothing of the family history. He preceded the new-comer with -silent composure, directing his steps to the drawing-room; but when he -found that all the party had silently thronged into the ante-room, he -made a formal pause half-way. No consciousness was in his unfaltering -tones. He drew his feet into the right attitude, and then he announced -the name that fell among them like a thunderbolt--“Mrs. Trevanion”--at -the top of a formal voice. - -She stood upon the threshold without advancing, her black veil thrown -back, her black dress hanging in heavy folds about her worn figure, her -face very pale, tremulous with a pathetic smile. She was holding fast by -Jane with one hand to support herself. She seemed to stand there for an -indefinite time, detached and separated from everything but the shadow -of her maid behind her, looking at them all, on the threshold of the -future, on the verge of the past; but in reality it was only for a -moment. Before, in fact, they had time to breathe, a great cry rang -through the house, and Rosalind flung herself, precipitated herself, -upon the woman whom she adored. “Mother!” It rang through every room, -thrilling the whole house from its foundations, and going through and -through the anxious spectators, to whom were now added a circle of -astonished servants, eager, not knowing what was happening. Mrs. -Trevanion received the shock of this young life suddenly flung upon her -with a momentary tottering, and, but for Jane behind her, might have -fallen, even as she put forth her arms and returned the vehement -embrace. Their faces met, their heads lay together for a moment, their -arms closed upon each other, there was that murmur without words, of -infinite love, pain, joy, undistinguishable. Then, while Rosalind still -clasped and clung to her, without relaxing a muscle, holding fast as -death what she had thus recovered, Mrs. Trevanion raised her head and -looked round her. Her eyes were wistful, full of a yearning beyond -words. Rosalind was here, but where were the others, her own, the -children of her bosom? Rex stood in the doorway, red and lowering, his -brows drawn down over his eyes, his shoulders up to his ears, a confused -and uneasy embarrassment in every line of his figure. He said not a -word, he looked straight before him, not at her. Sophy had got behind a -curtain, and was peering out, her restless eyes twinkling and moving, -her small figure concealed behind the drapery. The mother looked -wistfully out over the head of Rosalind lying on her bosom, supporting -the girl with her arms, holding her close, yet gazing, gazing, making a -passionate, pathetic appeal to her very own. Was there to be no reply? -Even on the instant there was a reply; a door was flung open, something -white flashed across the ante-room, and added itself like a little line -of light to the group formed by the two women. Oh, happiness that -overflows the heart! Oh misery that cuts it through like a knife! Of all -that she had brought into the world, little Amy alone! - -“My mistress is not able to bear it. I told her she was not able to bear -it. Let her sit down. Bring something for her; that chair, that chair! -Have pity upon her!” cried Jane, with urgent, vehement tones, which -roused them from the half-stupefaction with which the whole bewildered -assembly was gazing. John Trevanion was the first to move, and with him -Roland Hamerton. The others all stood by looking on; Rivers with the -interest of a spectator at a tragedy, the others with feelings so much -more personal and such a chaos of recollections and alarms. The two who -had started forward to succor her put Mrs. Trevanion reverently into the -great chair; John with true affection and anguish, Roland with a -wondering reverence which the first glance of her face, so altered and -pale, had impressed upon him. Then Mrs. Lennox bustled forward, wringing -her hands; how she had been restrained hitherto nobody ever knew. - -“Oh, Grace, Grace! oh, my poor Grace! oh, how ill she is looking! Oh, my -dear, my dear, haven’t you got a word for me? Oh, Grace, where have you -been all this time, and why didn’t you come to me? And how could you -distrust me, or think I ever believed, or imagine I wasn’t your friend! -Grace, my poor dear! Oh, Jane, is it a faint! What is it? Who has got a -fan? or some wine. Bring some wine! Oh, Jane, tell us, can’t you tell -us, what we ought to do?” - -“Nothing,” said Mrs. Trevanion, rousing herself; “nothing, Sophy. I knew -you were kind always. It is only--a little too much--and I have not been -well. John--oh, yes, that is quite easy--comfortable. Let me rest for a -moment, and then I will tell you what I have come to say.” - -They were all silent for that brief interval; even Mrs. Lennox did -nothing but wring her hands; and those who were most concerned became -like the rest, spectators of the tragedy. Little Amy, kneeling, half -thrown across her mother’s lap, made a spot of light upon the black -dress with her light streaming hair. Rosalind stood upright, very -upright, by the side of the mother whom she had found again, confronting -all the world in a high, indignant championship, which was so strangely -contrasted with the quiet wistfulness and almost satisfaction in the -face of the woman by whom she stood. Jane, very anxious, watching every -movement, her attention concentrated upon her mistress, stood behind the -chair. - -When Mrs. Trevanion opened her eyes she smiled. John Trevanion stood by -her on one side, Rosalind on the other. She had no lack of love, of -sympathy, or friendship. She looked from between them over Amy’s bright -head with a quivering of her lips. “Oh, no test, no test!” she said to -herself. She had known how it would be. She withdrew her eyes from the -boy standing gloomy in the doorway. She began to speak, and everybody -but he made some unconscious movement of quickened attention. Rex did -not give any sign, nor one other, standing behind, half hidden by the -door. - -“Sophy,” she said quietly, “I have always had the fullest trust in your -kindness; and if I come to your house on Rosalind’s birthday that can -hurt no one. This dreadful business has been going on too long--too -long. Flesh and blood cannot bear it. I have grown very weak--in mind, I -mean in mind. When I heard the children were near me I yielded to the -temptation and went to look at them. And all this has followed. Perhaps -it was wrong. My mind has got confused; I don’t know.” - -“Oh, Grace, my dear, how could it be wrong to look at your little -children, your own children, whom you were so cruelly, cruelly parted -from?” - -Mrs. Lennox began to cry. She adopted her sister-in-law’s cause in a -moment, without hesitation or pause. Her different opinion before -mattered nothing now. Mrs. Trevanion understood all and smiled, and -looked up at John Trevanion, who stood by her with his hand upon the -chair, very grave, his face full of pain, saying nothing. He was a -friend whom she had never doubted, and yet was it not his duty to -enforce the separation, as it had been his to announce it to her? - -“I know,” she cried, “and I know what is your duty, John. Only I have a -hope that something may come which will make it your duty no longer. But -in the meantime I have changed my mind about many things. I thought it -best before to go away without any explanations; I want now to tell you -everything.” - -Rosalind clasped her hand more closely. “Dear mother, what you please; -but not because we want explanations,” she said, her eyes including the -whole party in one high, defiant gaze. - -“Oh no, dear, no. We want nothing but just to enjoy your society a -little,” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Give dear Grace your arm, and bring her -into the drawing-room, John. Explanations! No, no! If there is anything -that is disagreeable let it just be forgotten. We are all friends now; -indeed we have always been friends,” the good woman cried. - -“I want to tell you how I left home,” Mrs. Trevanion said. She turned to -her brother-in-law, who was stooping over the back of her chair, his -face partially concealed. “John, you were right, yet you were all wrong. -In those terrible evenings at Highcourt”--she gave a slight shudder--“I -did indeed go night after night to meet--a man in the wood. When I went -away I went with him, to make up to him--the man, poor boy! he was -scarcely more than a boy--was--” She paused, her eye caught by a strange -combination. It brought the keenest pang of misery to her heart, yet -made her smile. Everard had been drawn by the intense interest of the -scene into the room. He stood in the doorway close to young Rex, who -leaned against it, looking out under the same lowering brows, in the -same attitude of sullen resistance. She gazed at them for a moment with -sad certainty, and yet a wonder never to be extinguished. “There,” she -said, with a keen sharpness of anguish in her voice, “they stand -together; look and you will see. My sons--both mine--and neither with -anything in his heart that speaks for me!” - -These words, and the unconscious group in the doorway, who were the only -persons in the room unaffected by what was said, threw a sudden -illumination upon the scene and the story and everything that had been. -A strange thrill ran through the company as every individual turned -round and gazed, and perceived, and understood. Mrs. Lennox gave a -sudden cry, clasping her hands together, and Rosalind, who was holding -Mrs. Trevanion’s hand, gave it such a sudden pressure, emphatic, almost -violent, that the sufferer moved involuntarily with the pain. John -Trevanion raised his head from where he had been leaning on her chair. -He took in everything with a glance. Was it an older Rex, less assured, -less arrogant, but not less determined to resist all softening -influences? But the effect on John was not that of an explanation, but -of an alarming, horrifying discovery. He withdrew from Mrs. Trevanion’s -chair. A tempest of wonder and fear arose in his mind. The two in the -doorway moved uneasily under the observation to which they were suddenly -subjected. They gave each other a naturally defiant glance. Neither of -them realized the revelation that had been made, not even Everard, -though he knew it--not Rex, listening with jealous repugnance, resisting -all the impulses of nature. Neither of them understood the wonderful -effect that was produced upon the others by the sight of them standing -side by side. - -John Trevanion had suddenly taken up a new position; no one knew why he -spoke in harsh, distinct tones, altogether unlike his usual friendly and -gentle voice. “Let us know, now, exactly what this means; and, for -God’s sake, no further concealment, no evasion. Speak out for that poor -boy’s sake.” - -There was surprise in Mrs. Trevanion’s eyes as she raised them to his -face. “I have come to tell you everything,” she said. - -“Sir,” said Jane, “my poor lady is far from strong. Before she says more -and brings on one of her faints, let her rest--oh, let her rest.” - -For once in his life John Trevanion had no pity. “Her faints,” he said; -“does she faint? Bring wine, bring something; but I must understand -this, whatever happens. It is a matter of life or death.” - -“Uncle John,” said Rosalind, “I will not have her disturbed. Whatever -there is amiss can be told afterwards. I am here to take care of her. -She shall not do more than she is able for; no, not even for you.” - -“Rosalind, are you mad? Don’t you see what hangs upon it? Reginald’s -position--everything, perhaps. I must understand what she means. I must -understand what _that_ means.” John Trevanion’s face was utterly without -color; he could not stand still--he was like a man on the rack. “I must -know everything, and instantly; for how can she stay here, unless-- She -must not stay.” - -This discussion, and his sharp, unhappy tone seemed to call Madam to -herself. - -“I did not faint,” she said, softly. “It is a mistake to call them -faints. I never was unconscious; and surely, Rosalind, he has a right to -know. I have come to explain everything.” - -Roland Hamerton had been standing behind. He came close to Rosalind’s -side. “Madam,” he said, “if you are not to stay here, wherever I have a -house, wherever I can give you a shelter, it is yours; whatever I can do -for you, from the bottom of my heart!” - -Mrs. Trevanion opened her eyes, which had been closed. She shook her -head very softly; and then she said almost in a whisper, “Rosalind, he -is very good and honest and true. I should be glad if-- And Amy, my -darling! you must go and get dressed. You will catch cold. Go, my love, -and then come back to me. I am ready, John. I want to make everything -clear.” - -Rosalind held her hand fast. She stood like a sentinel facing them all, -her left hand clasping Mrs. Trevanion’s, the other free, as if in -defence of her. And Roland stood close behind, ready to answer any call. -He was of Madam’s faction against all the world, the crowd (as it seemed -to these young people), before whom she was about to make her defence. -These two wanted no defence; neither did Mrs. Lennox, standing in front, -wringing her hands, with her honest face full of trouble, following -everything that each person said. “She is more fit to be in her bed than -anywhere else,” Mrs. Lennox was saying; “she is as white--as white as my -handkerchief. Oh, John, you that are so reasonable, and that always was -a friend to her--how can you be so cruel to her? She shall stay,” cried -Aunt Sophy, with a sudden outburst, “in my house-- I suppose it is my -house--as long as she will consent to stay.” - -Notwithstanding this, of all the people present, there was no one who in -his heart had stood by her so closely as John Trevanion. But -circumstances had so determined it that he must be her judge now. He -made a pause, and then pointed to the doorway in which the two young men -stood with a mutual scowl at each other. “Explain that,” he said, in -sharp, staccato tones, “first of all.” - -“Yes, John, I will explain,” Mrs, Trevanion said, with humility. “When I -met my husband first--” She paused as if to take breath--“I was married, -and I had a child. I feel no shame now,” she went on, yet with a faint -color rising over her paleness. “Shame is over for me; I must tell my -story without evasion, as you say. It is this, John. I thought I was a -deserted wife, and my boy had a right to his name. The same ship that -brought Reginald Trevanion brought the news that I was deceived. I was -left in a strange country without a friend--a woman who was no wife, -with a child who had no father. I thought I was the most miserable of -women; but now I know better. I know now--” - -John’s countenance changed at once. What he had feared or suspected was -never known to any of them; but his aspect changed; he tried to -interrupt her, and, coming back to her side, took her other hand. -“Grace,” he cried, “Grace! it is enough. I was a brute to think-- Grace, -my poor sister--” - -“Thank you, John; but I have not done. Your father,” she went on, -unconsciously changing, addressing another audience, “saw me, and heard -my story. And he was sorry for me--oh, he was more than sorry. He was -young and so was I. He proposed to me after a while that if I would give -up my boy--and we had no living, nothing to keep us from starvation--and -marry him, he would take care of the child; it should want for nothing, -but that I must never see it more. For a long time I could not make up -my mind. But poverty is very sharp; and how to get bread I knew not. The -child was pining, and so was I. And I was young. I suppose,” she said in -a low voice, drooping her head, “I still wished, still needed to be -happy. That seems so natural when one is young. And your father loved -me; and I him--and I him!” - -She said these words very low, with a pause between. “There, you have -all my story,” with a glimmer of a smile on her face. “It is a tragedy, -but simple enough, after all. I was never to see the child again; but my -heart betrayed me, and I deceived your father. I went and looked at my -boy out of windows, waited to see him pass--once met him on a railway -journey when you were with me, Rosalind--which was all wrong, wrong--oh, -wrong on both sides; to your father and to him. I don’t excuse myself. -Then, poor boy, he fell into trouble. How could he help it? His father’s -blood was in him, and mine too--a woman false to my vow. He was without -friend or home. When he was in great need and alarm, he came--was it not -natural?--to his mother. What could be more natural? He sent for me to -meet him, to help him, to tell him what to do. What could I do but -go--all being so wrong, so wrong? Jane knows everything. I begged my -poor boy to go away; but he was ignorant, he did not know the danger. -And then Russell, you know, who had never loved me--is she there, poor -woman?--found us out. She carried this story to your father. You think, -and she thinks,” said Mrs. Trevanion, raising herself with great dignity -in her chair, “that my husband suspected me of--of-- I cannot tell what -shameful suspicions. Reginald,” she went on, with a smile half scornful, -“had no such thought. He knew me better. He knew I went to meet my son, -and that I was risking everything for my son. He had vowed to me that in -that case I should be cut off from him and his. Oh, yes, I knew it all. -My eyes were open all the time. And he did what he had said.” She drew a -long breath. There was a dispassionate sadness in her voice, as of -winding up a history all past. “And what was I to do?” she resumed. “Cut -off from all the rest, there was a chance that I might yet be of some -use to him--my boy, whom I had neglected. Oh, John and Rosalind, I -wronged _you_. I should have told you this before; but I had not the -heart. And then, there was no time to lose, if I was to be of service to -the boy.” - -Everything was perfectly still in the room; no one had stirred; they -were afraid to lose a word. When she had thus ended she made a pause. -Her voice had been very calm, deliberate, a little feeble, with pauses -in it. When she spoke again it took another tone; it was full of -entreaty, like a prayer. She withdrew her hand from Rosalind. - -“Reginald!” she said, “Rex! have you nothing to say to me, my boy!” - -The direction of all eyes was changed and turned upon the lad. He stood -very red, very lowering, without moving from his post against the door. -He did not look at her. After a moment he began to clear his voice. “I -don’t know,” he said, “what there is to say.” Then, after another -pause: “I suppose I am expected to stick to my father’s will. I suppose -that’s my duty.” - -“But for all that,” she said, with a pleading which went to every heart; -her eyes filled, which had been quite dry, her mouth quivered with a -tender smile--“for all that, oh, my boy! it is not to take me in, to -make a sacrifice; but for once speak to me, come to me; I am your -mother, Rex.” - -Sophy had been behind the curtain all the time, wrapped in it, peering -out with her restless, dancing eyes. She was still only a child. Her -little bosom had begun to ache with sobs kept in, her face to work, her -mind to be moved by impulses beyond her power. She had tried to mould -herself upon Rex, until Rex, with the shadow of the other beside him, -holding back, repelling, resisting, became contemptible in Sophy’s keen -eyes. It was perhaps this touch of the ridiculous that affected her -sharp mind more than anything else; and the sound of her mother’s voice, -as it went on speaking, was more than nature could bear, and roused -impulses she scarcely understood within her. She resisted as long as she -could, winding herself up in the curtain; but at these last words -Sophy’s bonds were loosed; she shook herself out of the drapery and came -slowly forward, with eyes glaring red out of her pale face. - -“They say,” she said suddenly, “that we shall lose all our money, mamma, -if we go to you.” - -Mrs. Trevanion’s fortitude and calm had given way. She was not prepared -for this trial. She turned towards the new voice and held out her arms -without a word. But Sophy stood frightened, reluctant, anxious, her keen -eyes darting out of her head. - -“And what could I do?” she cried. “I am only a little thing, I couldn’t -work. If you gave up your baby because of being poor, what should we do, -Rex and I? We are younger, though you said you were young. We want to be -well off, too. If we were to go to you, everything would be taken from -us!” cried Sophy. “Mamma, what can we do?” - -Mrs. Trevanion turned to her supporters on either side of her with a -smile; her lips still trembled. “Sophy was always of a logical mind,” -she said, with a faint half-laugh. The light was flickering round her, -blackness coming where all these eager faces were. “I--I have my answer. -It is just enough. I have no--complaint.” - -There was a sudden outcry and commotion where all had been so still -before. Jane came from behind the chair and swept away, with that -command which knowledge gives, the little crowd which had closed in -around. “Air! air is what she wants, and to be quiet! Go away, for God’s -sake, all but Miss Rosalind!” - -John Trevanion hurried to open the window, and the faithful servant -wheeled the chair close to it in which her mistress lay. Just then two -other little actors came upon the scene. Amy had obeyed her mother -literally. She had gone and dressed with that calm acceptance of all -wonders which is natural to childhood; then sought her little brother at -play in the nursery. “Come and see mamma,” she said. Without any -surprise, Johnny obeyed. He had his whip in his hand, which he -flourished as he came into the open space which had been cleared round -that chair. - -“Where’s mamma?” said Johnny. His eyes sought her among the people -standing about. When his calm but curious gaze found out the fainting -figure he shook his hand free from that of Amy, who led him. “That!” he -said, contemptuously; “that’s not mamma, that’s the lady.” - -Against the absolute certainty of his tone there was nothing to be said. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIII. - - -Rivers had stood listening all through this strange scene, he scarcely -knew why. He was roused now to the inappropriateness of his presence -here. What had he to do in the midst of a family tragedy with which he -had no connection? His heart contracted with one sharp spasm of pain. He -had no connection with the Trevanions. He looked round him, half -contemptuous of himself, for some one of whom he could take leave before -he closed the door of this portion of his life behind him, and left it -forever. There was no one. All the different elements were drawn -together in the one central interest with which the stranger had nothing -to do. Rivers contemplated the group around Mrs. Trevanion’s chair as if -it had been a picture. The drama was over, and all had resolved itself -into stillness, whether the silence of death, or a pause only and -interruption of the continuity, he could not tell. He looked round him, -unconsciously receiving every detail into his mind. This was what he had -given a year of his life for, to leave this household with which he had -so strongly identified himself without even a word of farewell and to -see them no more. He lingered only for a moment, the lines of the -picture biting themselves in upon his heart. When he felt it to be so -perfect that no after-experience could make it dim he went away; Roland -Hamerton followed him to the door. Hamerton, on his side, very much -shaken by the agitating scene, to which his inexperience knew no -parallel, was eager to speak to some one, to relieve his heart. - -“Do you think she is dead?” he said under his breath. - -“Death, in my experience, rarely comes so easily,” Rivers replied. After -a pause he added, “I am going away to-night. I suppose you remain?” - -“If I can be of any use. You see I have known them all my life.” - -“There you have the advantage of me,” said the other, sharply, with a -sort of laugh. “I have given them only a year of mine. Good-bye, -Hamerton. Our way--does not lie the same--” - -“Good-bye,” said Roland, taken by surprise, and stopping short, though -he had not meant to do so. Then he called after him with a kindly -impulse, “We shall be sure to hear of you. Good luck! Good-bye.” - -Good luck! The words seemed an insult; but they were not so meant. -Rivers sped on, never looking back. At the gate he made up to Everard, -walking with his head down and his hands in his pockets, in gloomy -discomfiture. His appearance moved Rivers to a kind of inward laugh. -There was no triumph, at least, in him. - -“You have come away without knowing if your mother will live or die.” - -“What’s the use of waiting on?” said young Everard. “She’ll be all -right. They are only faints; all women have them; they are nothing to be -frightened about.” - -“I think they are a great deal to be frightened about--very likely she -will never leave that house alive.” - -“Oh, stuff!” Everard said; and then he added, half apologetically, “You -don’t know her as I do.” - -“Perhaps better than you do,” said Rivers; and then he added, as he had -done to Hamerton, “Our ways lie in different directions. Good-bye. I am -leaving Aix to-night.” - -Everard looked after him, surprised. He had no good wishes to speak, as -Roland had. A sense of pleasure at having got rid of an antagonist was -in his mind. For his mind was of the calibre which is not aware when -there comes an end. All life to him was a ragged sort of thread, going -on vaguely, without any logic in it. He was conscious that a great deal -had happened and that the day had been full of excitement; but how it -was to affect his life he did not know. - -Thus the three rivals parted. They had not been judged on their merits, -but the competition was over. He who was nearest to the prize felt, like -the others, his heart and courage very low; for he had not succeeded in -what he had attempted; he had done nothing to bring about the happy -termination; and whether even that termination was to be happy or not, -as yet no one could say. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIV. - - -Madam was conveyed with the greatest care and tenderness to the best -room in the house, Mrs. Lennox’s own room, which it was a great -satisfaction to that kind soul to give up to her, making the little -sacrifice with joy. - -“I have always thought what a nice room to be ill in--don’t you think it -is a nice room, Grace?--and to get better in, my dear. You can step into -the fresh air at once as soon as you are strong enough, and there is -plenty of room for us all to come and sit with you; and, please God, -we’ll soon have you well again and everything comfortable,” cried Mrs. -Lennox, her easy tears flowing softly, her easy words rolling out like -them. Madam accepted everything with soft thanks and smiles, and a quiet -ending seemed to fall quite naturally to the agitated day. Rosalind -spent the night by her mother’s bedside--the long, long night that -seemed as if it never would be done. When at last it was over, the -morning made everything more hopeful. A famous doctor, who happened to -be in the neighborhood, came with a humbler brother from Aix and -examined the patient, and said she had no disease--no disease--only no -wish or intention of living. Rosalind’s heart bounded at the first -words, but fell again at the end of the sentence, which these men of -science said very gravely. As for Mrs. Trevanion, she smiled at them -all, and made no complaint. All the day she lay there, sometimes lapsing -into that momentary death which she would not allow to be called a -faint, then coming back again, smiling, talking by intervals. The -children did not tire her, she said. Little Johnny, accustomed to the -thought that “the lady” was mamma, accepted it as quite simple, and, -returning to his usual occupations, drove a coach and four made of -chairs in her room, to her perfect satisfaction and his. The cracking -of his whip did not disturb her. Neither did Amy, who sat on her bed, -and forgot her troubles, and sang a sort of ditty, of which the burden -was “Mamma has come back.” Sophy, wandering long about the door of the -room, at last came in too, and standing at a distance, stared at her -mother with those sharp, restless eyes of hers, like one who was afraid -to be infected if she made too near an approach. And later in the -afternoon Reginald came suddenly in, shamefaced and gloomy, and came up -to the bed, and kissed her, almost without looking at her. At other -times, Mrs. Trevanion was left alone with her brother-in-law and -Rosalind, who understood her best, and talked to them with animation and -what seemed to be pleasure. - -“Rosalind will not see,” she said with a smile, “that there comes a time -when dying is the most natural--the most easy way of settling -everything--the most pleasant for every one concerned.” There was no -solemnity in her voice, though now and then it broke, and there were -pauses for strength. She was the only one of the three who was cheerful -and at ease. “If I were so ill-advised as to live,” she added with a -faint laugh, “nothing could be changed. The past, you allow, has become -impossible, Rosalind; I could not go away again. That answered for once, -but not again.” - -“You would be with me, mother, or I with you; for I am free, you know--I -am free now.” - -Mrs. Trevanion shook her head. “John,” she said, “tell her; she is too -young to understand of herself. Tell her that this is the only way to -cut the knot--that it is the best way--the most pleasant--John, tell -her.” - -He was standing by with his head bent upon his breast. He made a hasty -sign with his hand. He could not have spoken to save his own life, or -even hers. It was all intolerable, past bearing. He stood and listened, -with sometimes an outcry--sometimes, alas, a dreadful consent in his -heart to what she said, but he could not speak. - -The conviction that now is the moment to die, that death is the most -natural, noble, even agreeable way of solving a great problem, and -making the path clear not only for the individual most closely -concerned, but for all around, is not unusual in life. Both in the -greater historical difficulties, and in those which belong to private -story, it appears often that this would be the better way. But the -conviction is not always sufficient to carry itself out. Sometimes it -will so happen that he or she in whose person the difficulty lies will -so prevail over flesh and blood, so exalt the logic of the situation, as -to attain this easy solution of the problem. But not in all cases does -it succeed. Madam proved to be one of those who fail. Though she had so -clearly made out what was expedient, and so fully consented to it, the -force of her fine organization was such that she was constrained to -live, and could not die. - -And, what was more wonderful still, from the moment when she entered -Mrs. Lennox’s room at Bonport, the problem seemed to dissolve itself and -flee away in unsubstantial vapor-wreaths like a mist, as if it were no -problem at all. One of the earliest posts brought a black-edged letter -from England, announcing the death of Mr. Blake, the second executor of -Reginald Trevanion’s will, and John, with a start of half-incredulous -wonder, found himself the only responsible authority in the matter. It -had already been his determination to put it to the touch, to ascertain -whether such a will would stand, even with the chilling doubt upon his -mind that Mrs. Trevanion might not be able to explain the circumstances -which involved her in suspicion. But now suddenly, miraculously, it -became apparent to him that nothing need be done at all, no publicity -given, no scandal made. For who was there to take upon him the odious -office of reviving so odious an instrument? Who was to demand its -observance? Who interfere with the matter if it dropped into contempt? -The evil thing seemed to die and come to an end without any -intervention. Its conditions had become a manifest impossibility--to be -resisted to the death if need were; but there was no need: for had they -not in a moment become no more than a dead letter? Might not this have -been from the beginning, and all the misery spared? As John Trevanion -looked back upon it, asking himself this question, that terrible moment -in the past seemed to him like a feverish dream. No one of the actors in -it had preserved his or her self-command. The horror had been so great -that it had taken their faculties from them, and Madam’s sudden action, -of which the reasons were only now apparent, had cut the ground from -under the feet of the others, and forestalled all reasonable attempts to -bring something better out of it. She had not been without blame. Her -pride, too, had been in fault; her womanish haste, the precipitate -measures which had made any better solution impossible. But now all that -was over. Why should she die, now that everything had become clear? - -The circumstances got revealed, to some extent, in Aix, among the -English visitors who remained, and even to the ordinary population in a -curious version, the point of the rumor being that the mysterious -English lady had died with the little somnambulist in her arms, who, it -was hoped for the sake of sensation, had died too. This was the rumor -that reached Everard’s ears on the morning after, when he went to seek -his mother in the back room she had inhabited at the hotel, and found no -trace of her, but this legend to explain her absence. It had been hard -to get at his heart, perhaps impossible by ordinary means; but this news -struck him like a mortal blow. And his organization was not like hers. -He fell prostrate under it, and it was weeks before he got better and -could be removed. The hands into which this weakling fell were nerveless -but gentle hands. Aunt Sophy had “taken to” him from the first, and he -had always responded to her kindness. When he was able to go home she -took “Grace’s boy” to her own house, where the climate was milder than -at Highcourt; and by dint of a quite uncritical and undiscriminating -affection, and perfect contentment with him as he was, in the virtue of -his convalescence, did more to make of Edmund Everard a tolerable member -of an unexacting society than his mother could ever have done. There are -some natures for whose treatment it is well that their parents should be -fools. It seems cruel to apply such a word to the kind but silly soul -who had so much true bounty and affection in her. She and he gave each -other a great deal of consolation and mutual advantage in the course of -the years. - -Russell had been, like Everard, incapable of supposing that the victim -might die under their hands; and when all seemed to point to that -certainty, the shock of shame and remorse helped to change the entire -tenor of her life. She who had left the village triumphantly announcing -herself as indispensable to the family and the children, could not -return there in circumstances so changed. She married Mrs. Lennox’s -Swiss servant in haste, and thereafter spent her life in angry -repentance. She now keeps a _Pension_ in Switzerland, where her quality -of Englishwoman is supposed to attract English visitors, and lays up her -gains bitterly amid “foreign ways,” which she tells any new-comer she -cannot abide. - -And Rosalind did what probably Mr. Ruskin’s Rosiere, tired of her seven -suitors, would in most cases do--escaping from the illusions of her own -imagination and from the passion which had frightened her, fell back -upon the steady, faithful love which had executed no hard task for her, -done no heroic deed, but only loved her persistently, pertinaciously, -through all. She married Roland Hamerton some months after they all -returned home. And thus this episode of family history came to an end. -Probably she would have done the same without any strain of compulsion -had these calamities and changes never been. - - - THE END. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Madam, by Mrs. Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADAM *** - -***** This file should be named 55125-0.txt or 55125-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/2/55125/ - -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: Madam - A Novel - -Author: Mrs. Oliphant - -Release Date: July 16, 2017 [EBook #55125] -[Last updated: July 26, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADAM *** - - - - -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" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="[Image -of the book's cover is unavailable.]" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td class="c"><b>Contents</b></td></tr> -<tr><td><p> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter: I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"> XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"> XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI"> XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII"> XXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII"> XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV"> XXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV"> XXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI"> XXXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII"> XXXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII"> XXXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX"> XXXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL"> XL., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI"> XLI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII"> XLII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII"> XLIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV"> XLIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV"> XLV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI"> XLVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII"> XLVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII"> XLVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX"> XLIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_L"> L., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LI"> LI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LII"> LII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIII"> LIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIV"> LIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LV"> LV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVI"> LVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVII"> LVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII"> LVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIX"> LIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LX"> LX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXI"> LXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXII"> LXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIII"> LXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIV"> LXIV.</a> -</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<h1>MADAM</h1> -<p class="c"><span class="eng">A Novel</span><br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “THE LADIES LINDORES” ETC.</small><br /><br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -<small>HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE</small><br /> -1885 -</p> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="cb"><big>BY MRS. OLIPHANT.</big></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr valign="top"><td><span class="smcap">Agnes.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">A Son of the Soil.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1 00.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Brownlows.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Carita.</span> Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">For Love and Life.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Harry Joscelyn.</span> 4to, Paper, 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Hester.</span> 4to, Paper, 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">He that Will Not when He May.</span> 4to, Paper, 15 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Innocent.</span> Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">It was a Lover and his Lass.</span> 4to, Paper, 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">John.</span> 8vo, Paper, 25 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Katie Stewart.</span> 8vo, Paper, 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Lady Jane.</span> 8vo, Paper, 10 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Life of Edward Irving.</span> 8vo, $3 50.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Lucy Crofton.</span> 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Madam.</span> 16mo, Cloth, 15 cents; 4to, Paper, 25 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Madonna Mary.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Miss Marjoribanks.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Mrs. Arthurs.</span> 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Ombra.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Phoebe Junior.</span> 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Sir Tom.</span> 4to, Paper 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Sketch of Sheridan.</span> 12mo, 75 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Squire Arden.</span> 8vo, Paper. 50 cents.<br /> -</td><td style="border-left:1px solid black; -padding-left:.5em;"><span class="smcap">The Athelings.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Chronicles of Carlingford.</span> 8vo, Paper, 60 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Curate in Charge.</span> 8vo, Paper, 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Days of My Life.</span> 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Fugitives.</span> 4to, Paper, 10 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Greatest Heiress in England.</span> 4to, Paper, 15 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The House on the Moor.</span> 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Ladies Lindores.</span> 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper, 90 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Laird of Norlaw.</span> 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Last of the Mortimers.</span> 12 mo, Cloth, $1 50.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Minister’s Wife.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Perpetual Curate.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1 00.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Primrose Path.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Queen.</span> Illustrated. 4to, Paper, 25 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Quiet Heart.</span> 8vo, Paper, 20 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Wizard’s Son.</span> 4to, Paper, 25 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Valentine and his Brother.</span> 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Within the Precincts.</span> 4to, Paper, 15 cents.<br /> -<span class="smcap">Young Musgrave.</span> 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c"> -<span class="smcap">Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.</span><br /> - -☛ <i>Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States,<br /> -on receipt of the price.</i><br /> -</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>M A D A M.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">A large</span> drawing-room in a country-house, in the perfect warmth, -stillness, and good order of after-dinner, awaiting the ladies coming -in; the fire perfection, reflecting itself in all the polished brass and -steel and tiles of the fireplace; the atmosphere just touched with the -scent of the flowers on the tables; the piano open, with candles lit -upon it; some pretty work laid out upon a stand near the fire, books on -another, ready for use, velvet curtains drawn. The whole softly, fully -lighted, a place full of every gentle luxury and comfort in -perfection—the scene prepared, waiting only the actors in it.</p> - -<p>It is curious to look into a centre of life like this, all ready for the -human affairs about to be transacted there. Tragedy or comedy, who can -tell which? the clash of human wills, the encounter of hearts, or -perhaps only that serene blending of kindred tastes and inclinations -which makes domestic happiness. Who was coming in? A fair mother, with a -flock of girls fairer still, a beautiful wife adding the last grace to -the beautiful place? some fortunate man’s crown of well-being and -happiness, the nucleus of other happy homes to come?</p> - -<p>A pause: the fire only crackling now and then, a little burst of flame -puffing forth, the clock on the mantelpiece chiming softly. Then there -entered alone a young lady about eighteen, in the simple white dinner -dress of a home party; a tall, slight girl, with smooth brown hair, and -eyes for the moment enlarged with anxiety and troubled meaning. She came -in not as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> daughter of the house in ordinary circumstances comes in, -to take her pleasant place, and begin her evening occupation, whatever -it may be. Her step was almost stealthy, like that of a pioneer, -investigating anxiously if all was safe in a place full of danger. Her -eyes, with the lids curved over them in an anxiety almost despairing, -seemed to plunge into and search through and through the absolute -tranquillity of this peaceful place. Then she said in a half-whisper, -the intense tone of which was equal to a cry, “Mother!” Nothing stirred: -the place was so warm, so perfect, so happy; while this one human -creature stood on the threshold gazing—as if it had been a desert full -of nothing but trouble and terror. She stood thus only for a moment, and -then disappeared. It was a painful intrusion, suggestive of everything -that was most alien to the sentiment of the place: when she withdrew it -fell again into that soft beaming of warmth and brightness waiting for -the warmer interest to come.</p> - -<p>The doorway in which she had stood for that momentary inspection, which -was deep in a solid wall, with two doors, in case any breath of cold -should enter, opened into a hall, very lofty and fine, a sort of centre -to the quiet house. Here the light was dimmer, the place being deserted, -though it had an air of habitation, and the fire still smouldered in the -huge chimney, round which chairs were standing. Sounds of voices muffled -by closed doors and curtains came from the farther side where the -dining-room was. The young lady shrank from this as if her noiseless -motion could have been heard over the sounds of the male voices there. -She hurried along to the other end of the hall, which lay in darkness -with a glimmer of pale sky showing between the pillars from without. The -outer doors were not yet shut. The inner glass door showed this paleness -of night, with branches of trees tossing against a gray heaven full of -flying clouds—the strangest weird contrast to all the warmth and luxury -within. The girl shivered as she came in sight of that dreary outer -world. This was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> opening of the park in front of the house, a width -of empty space, and beyond it the commotion of the wind, the stormy show -of the coursing clouds. She went close to the door and gazed out, -pressing her forehead against the glass, and searching the darkness, as -she had done the light, with anxious eyes. She stood so for about five -minutes, and then she breathed an impatient sigh. “What is the good?” -she said to herself, half aloud.</p> - -<p>Here something stirred near her which made her start, at first with an -eager movement of hope. Then a low voice said—“No good at all, Miss -Rosalind. Why should you mix yourself up with what’s no concern of -yours?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind had started violently when she recognized the voice, but -subdued herself while the other spoke. She answered, with quiet -self-restraint: “Is it you, Russell? What are you doing here? You will -make it impossible for me to do anything for you if you forget your own -place!”</p> - -<p>“I am doing what my betters are doing, Miss Rosalind—looking out for -Madam, just as you are.”</p> - -<p>“How dare you say such things! I—am looking out to see what sort of -night it is. It is very stormy. Go away at once. You have no right to be -here!”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been here longer than most folks—longer than them that has the -best opinion of themselves; longer than—”</p> - -<p>“Me perhaps,” said Rosalind. “Yes, I know—you came before I was born; -but you know what folly this is. Mamma,” the girl said, with a certain -tremor and hesitation, “will be very angry if she finds you here.”</p> - -<p>“I wish, Miss Rosalind, you’d have a little more respect for yourself. -It goes against me to hear you say mamma. And your own dear mamma, that -should have been lady of everything—”</p> - -<p>“Russell, I wish you would not be such a fool! My poor little mother -that died when I was born. And you to keep up a grudge like this for so -many years!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<p>“And will, whatever you may say,” cried the woman, under her breath; -“and will, till I die, or till one of us—”</p> - -<p>“Go up-stairs,” said Rosalind, peremptorily, “at once! What have you to -do here? I don’t think you are safe in the house. If I had the power I -should send you away.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Rosalind, you are as cruel as— You have no heart. Me, that nursed -you, and watched over you—”</p> - -<p>“It is too terrible a price to pay,” cried the girl, stamping her foot -on the floor. “Go! I will not have you here. If mamma finds you when she -comes down-stairs—”</p> - -<p>The woman laughed. “She will ask what you are doing here, Miss Rosalind. -It will not be only me she’ll fly out upon. What are you doing here? -Who’s outside that interests you so? It interests us both, that’s the -truth; only I am the one that knows the best.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind’s white figure flew across the faint light. She grasped the -shoulder of the dark shadow, almost invisible in the gloom. “Go!” she -cried in her ear, pushing Russell before her; the onslaught was so -sudden and vehement that the woman yielded and disappeared reluctantly, -gliding away by one of the passages that led to the other part of the -house. The girl stood panting and excited in the brief sudden fury of -her passion, a miserable sense of failing faith and inability to explain -to herself the circumstances in which she was, heightening the fervor of -her indignation. Were Russell’s suspicions true? Had she been in the -right all along? Those who take persistently the worst view of human -nature are, alas! so often in the right. And what is there more terrible -than the passion of defence and apology for one whom the heart begins to -doubt? The girl was young, and in her rage and pain could scarcely keep -herself from those vehement tears which are the primitive attribute of -passion. How calm she could have been had she been quite, quite sure! -How she had laughed at Russell’s prejudices in the old days when all was -well. She had even excused Russell, feeling that after all it was pretty -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> her nurse to return continually to the image of her first -mistress—Rosalind’s own mother—and that in the uneducated mind the -prepossession against a stepmother, the wrath with which the woman saw -her own nursling supplanted, had a sort of feudal flavor which was -rather agreeable than otherwise.</p> - -<p>Rosalind had pardoned Russell as Mrs. Trevanion herself had pardoned -her. So long as all was well: so long as there was nothing mysterious, -nothing that baffled the spectator in the object of Russell’s -animadversions. But now something had fallen into life which changed it -altogether. To defend those we love from undeserved accusations is so -easy. And in books and plays, and every other exhibition of human nature -in fiction, the accused always possesses the full confidence of those -who love him. In ordinary cases they will not even hear any explanation -of equivocal circumstances—they know that guilt is impossible: it is -only those who do not know him who can believe anything so monstrous. -Alas! this is not so in common life—the most loving and believing -cannot always have that sublime faith. Sometimes doubt and fear gnaw the -very souls of those who are the champions, the advocates, the warmest -partisans of the accused. This terrible canker had got into Rosalind’s -being. She loved her stepmother with enthusiasm. She was ready to die in -her defence. She would not listen to the terrible murmur in her own -heart; but yet it was there. And as she stood and gazed out upon the -park, upon the wild bit of stormy sky, with the black tree-tops waving -wildly against it, she was miserable, as miserable as a heart of -eighteen ever was. Where had Madam gone, hurrying from the dinner-table -where she had smiled and talked and given no sign of trouble? She was -not in her room, nor in the nursery, nor anywhere that Rosalind could -think of. It was in reality a confession of despair, a sort of giving up -of the cause altogether, when the girl came to spy out into the wintry -world outside and look for the fugitive there.</p> - -<p>Rosalind had resisted the impulse to do so for many an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> evening. She had -paused by stealth in the dark window above in the corridor, and blushed -for herself and fled from that spy’s place. But by force of trouble and -doubt and anguish her scruples had been overcome, and now she had -accepted for herself this position of spy. If her fears had been -verified, and she had seen her mother cross that vacant space and steal -into the house, what the better would she have been? But there is in -suspicion a wild curiosity, an eagerness for certainty, which grows like -a fever. She had come to feel that she must know—whatever happened she -must be satisfied—come what would, that would be better than the -gnawing of this suspense. And she had another object too. Her father was -an invalid, exacting and fretful. If his wife was not ready at his call -whenever he wanted her, his displeasure was unbounded; and of late it -had happened many times that his wife had not been at his call. The -scenes that had followed, the reproaches, the insults even, to which the -woman whom she called mother had been subjected, had made Rosalind’s -heart sick. If she could but see her, hasten her return, venture to call -her, to bid her come quick, quick! it would be something. The girl was -not philosopher enough to say to herself that Madam would not come a -moment the sooner for being thus watched for. It takes a great deal of -philosophy to convince an anxious woman of this in any circumstances, -and Rosalind was in the pangs of a first trouble, the earliest anguish -she had ever known. After she had driven Russell away, she stood with -her face pressed against the glass and all her senses gone into her eyes -and ears. She heard, she thought, the twitter of the twigs in the wind, -the sharp sound now and then of one which broke and fell, which was like -a footstep on the path; besides the louder sweep of the tree-tops in the -wind, and on the other hand the muffled and faint sound of life from the -dining-room, every variation in which kept her in alarm.</p> - -<p>But it was in vain she gazed; nothing crossed the park except the sweep -of the clouds driven along the sky; nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> sounded in the air except -the wind, the trees, and sometimes the opening of a distant door or clap -of a gate; until the dining-room became more audible, a sound of chairs -pushed back and voices rising, warning the watcher. She flew like an -arrow through the hall, and burst into the still sanctuary of domestic -warmth and tranquillity as if she had been a hunted creature escaping -from a fatal pursuit with her enemies at her heels. Her hands were like -ice, her slight figure shivering with cold, yet her heart beating so -that she could scarcely draw her breath. All this must disappear before -the gentlemen came in. It was Rosalind’s first experience in that -strange art which comes naturally to a woman, of obliterating herself -and her own sensations; but how was she to still her pulse, to restore -her color, to bring warmth to her chilled heart? She felt sure that her -misery, her anguish of suspense, her appalling doubts and terrors, must -be written in her face; but it was not so. The emergency brought back a -rush of the warm blood tingling to her fingers’ ends. Oh never, never, -through her, must the mother she loved be betrayed! That brave impulse -brought color to her cheek and strength to her heart. She made one or -two of those minute changes in the room which a woman always finds -occasion for, drawing the card-table into a position more exactly like -that which her father approved, giving an easier angle to his chair, -with a touch moving that of Madam into position as if it had been risen -from that moment. Then Rosalind took up the delicate work that lay on -the table, and when the gentlemen entered was seated on a low seat -within the circle of the shaded lamp, warm in the glow of the genial -fireside, her pretty head bent a little over her pretty industry, her -hands busy. She who had been the image of anxiety and unrest a moment -before was now the culminating-point of all the soft domestic -tranquillity, luxury, boundless content and peace, of which this silent -room was the home. She looked up with a smile to greet them as they came -in. The brave girl had recovered her sweet looks, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> color, and air of -youthful composure and self-possession, by sheer force of will, and -strain of the crisis in which she stood to maintain the honor of the -family at every hazard. She had been able to do that, but she could not -yet for the moment trust herself to speak.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> gentlemen who came into the drawing-room at Highcourt were four in -number: the master of the house, his brother, the doctor, and a young -man fresh from the university, who was a visitor. Mr. Trevanion was an -invalid; he had been a tall man, of what is called aristocratic -appearance; a man with fine, clearly cut features, holding his head -high, with an air “as if all the world belonged to him.” These fine -features were contracted by an expression of fastidious discontent and -dissatisfaction, which is not unusually associated with such universal -proprietorship, and illness had taken the flesh from his bones, and -drawn the ivory skin tightly over the high nose and tall, narrow -forehead. His lips were thin and querulous, his shoulders stooping, his -person as thin and angular as human form could be. When he had warmed -his ghostly hands at the fire, and seated himself in his accustomed -chair, he cast a look round him as if seeking some subject of complaint. -His eyes were blue, very cold, deficient in color, and looked out from -amid the puckers of his eyelids with the most unquestionable meaning. -They seemed to demand something to object to, and this want is one which -is always supplied. The search was but momentary, so that he scarcely -seemed to have entered the room before he asked, “Where is your mother?” -in a high-pitched, querulous voice.</p> - -<p>Mr. John Trevanion had followed his brother to the fire, and stood now -with his back to the blaze looking at Rosalind. His name was not in -reality John, but something much more ornamental and refined; but -society had availed itself of its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> well-known propensity in a more -judicious manner than usual, and rechristened him with the short and -manly monosyllable which suited his character. He was a man who had been -a great deal about the world, and had discovered of how little -importance was a Trevanion of Highcourt, and yet how it simplified life -to possess a well-known name. One of these discoveries without the other -is not improving to the character, but taken together the result is -mellowing and happy. He was very tolerant, very considerate, a man who -judged no one, yet formed very shrewd opinions of his own, upon which he -was apt to act, even while putting forth every excuse and acknowledging -every extenuating circumstance. He looked at Rosalind with a certain -veiled anxiety in his eyes, attending her answer with solicitude; but to -all appearance he was only spreading himself out as an Englishman loves -to do before the clear glowing fire. Dr. Beaton had gone as far away as -possible from that brilliant centre. He was stout, and disapproved, he -said, “on principle,” of the habit of gathering round the fireside. “Let -the room be properly warmed,” he was in the habit of saying, “but don’t -let us bask in the heat like the dogues,” for the doctor was Scotch, and -betrayed now and then in a pronunciation, and always in accent, his -northern origin. He had seated himself on the other side of the -card-table, ready for the invariable game. Young Roland Hamerton, the -Christchurch man, immediately gravitated towards Rosalind, who, to tell -the truth, could not have given less attention to him had he been one of -the above-mentioned “dogues.”</p> - -<p>“Where is your mother?” Mr. Trevanion said, looking round for matter of -offence.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Rosalind, with a quick drawing of her breath; “mamma has gone -for a moment to the nursery—I suppose.” She drew breath again before -the last two words, thus separating them from what had gone before—a -little artifice which Uncle John perceived, but no one else.</p> - -<p>“Now this is a strange thing,” said Mr. Trevanion, “that in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> my own -house, and in my failing state of health, I cannot secure my own wife’s -attention at the one moment in the day when she is indispensable to me. -The nursery! What is there to do in the nursery? Is not Russell there? -If the woman is not fit to be trusted, let her be discharged at once and -some one else got.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! it is not that there is any doubt about Russell, papa, only one -likes to see for one’s self.”</p> - -<p>“Then why can’t she send you to see for yourself. This is treatment I am -not accustomed to. Oh, what do I say? Not accustomed to it! Of course I -am accustomed to be neglected by everybody. A brat of a child that never -ailed anything in its life is to be watched over, while I, a dying man, -must take my chance. I have put up with it for years, always hoping that -at last— But the worm will turn, you know; the most patient will break -down. If I am to wait night after night for the one amusement, the one -little pleasure, such as it is— Night after night! I appeal to you, -doctor, whether Mrs. Trevanion has been ready once in the last -fortnight. The only thing that I ask of her—the sole paltry little -complaisance—”</p> - -<p>He spoke very quickly, allowing no possibility of interruption, till his -voice, if we may use such a word, overran itself and died away for want -of breath.</p> - -<p>“My dear sir,” said the doctor, taking up the cards, “we are just enough -for our rubber; and, as I have often remarked, though I bow to the -superiority of the ladies in most things, whist, in my opinion, is -altogether a masculine game. Will you cut for the deal?”</p> - -<p>But by this time Mr. Trevanion had recovered his breath. “It is what I -will not put up with,” he said; “everybody in this house relies upon my -good-nature. I am always the <i>souffre-douleur</i>. When a man is too easy -he is taken advantage of on all hands. Where is your mother? Oh, I mean -your stepmother, Rosalind; her blood is not in your veins, thank Heaven! -You are a good child; I have no reason to find fault with you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> Where is -she? The nursery? I don’t believe anything about the nursery. She is -with some of her low friends; yes, she has low friends. Hold your -tongue, John; am I or am I not the person that knows best about my own -wife? Where is your mistress? Where is Madam? Don’t stand there looking -like a stuck pig, but speak!”</p> - -<p>This was addressed to an unlucky footman who had come in prowling on one -of the anonymous errands of domestic service—to see if the fire wanted -looking to—if there were any coffee-cups unremoved—perhaps on a -mission of curiosity, too. Mr. Trevanion was the terror of the house. -The man turned pale and lost his self-command. “I—I don’t know, sir. -I—I think, sir, as Madam—I—I’ll send Mr. Dorrington, sir,” the -unfortunate said.</p> - -<p>John Trevanion gave his niece an imperative look, saying low, “Go and -tell her.” Rosalind rose trembling and put down her work. The footman -had fled, and young Hamerton, hurrying to open the door to her (which -was never shut) got in her way and brought upon himself a glance of -wrath which made him tremble. He retreated with a chill running through -him, wondering if the Trevanion temper was in her too, while the master -of the house resumed. However well understood such explosions of family -disturbance may be, they are always embarrassing and uncomfortable to -visitors, and young Hamerton was not used to them and did not know what -to make of himself. He withdrew to the darker end of the room, where it -opened into a very dimly lighted conservatory, while the doctor shuffled -the cards, letting them drop audibly through his fingers, and now and -then attempting to divert the flood of rising rage by a remark. “Bless -me,” he said, “I wish I had been dealing in earnest; what a bonnie thing -for a trump card!” and, “A little farther from the fire, Mr. Trevanion, -you are getting overheated; come, sir, the young fellow will take a hand -to begin with, and after the first round another player can cut in.” -These running interruptions, however, were of little service;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> Mr. -Trevanion’s admirable good-nature which was always imposed upon; his -long-suffering which everybody knew; the advantage the household took of -him; the special sins of his wife for whom he had done -everything—“Everything!” he cried; “I took her without a penny or a -friend, and this is how she repays me”—afforded endless scope. It was -nothing to him in his passion that he disclosed what had been the -secrets of his life; and, indeed, by this time, after the perpetual -self-revelation of these fits of passion there were few secrets left to -keep. His ivory countenance reddened, his thin hands gesticulated, he -leaned forward in his chair, drawing up the sharp angles of his knees, -as he harangued about himself and his virtues and wrongs. His brother -stood and listened, gazing blankly before him as if he heard nothing. -The doctor sat behind, dropping the cards from one hand to another with -a little rustling sound, and interposing little sentences of soothing -and gentle remonstrance, while the young man, ashamed to be thus forced -into the confidence of the family, edged step by step farther away into -the conservatory till he got to the end, where was nothing but a -transparent wall of glass between him and the agitations of the stormy -night.</p> - -<p>Rosalind stole out into the hall with a beating heart. Her father’s -sharp voice still echoed in her ears, and she had an angry and ashamed -consciousness that the footman who had hurried from the room before her, -and perhaps other servants, excited by the crisis, were watching her and -commenting upon the indecision with which she stood, not knowing what to -do. “Go and tell her.” How easy it was to say so! Oh, if she but knew -where to go, how to find her, how to save her not only from domestic -strife but from the gnawing worm of suspicion and doubt which Rosalind -felt in her own heart! What was she to do? Should she go up-stairs again -and look through all the rooms, though she knew it would be in vain? To -disarm her father’s rage, to smooth over this moment of misery and put -things back on their old footing, the girl would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> done anything; -but as the moments passed she became more and more aware that this was -not nearly all that was wanted, that even she herself, loving Mrs. -Trevanion with all her heart, required more. Her judgment cried out for -more. She wanted explanation; a reason for these strange disappearances. -Why should she choose that time of all others when her absence must be -so much remarked; and where, oh, where did she go? Rosalind stood with a -sort of stupefied sense of incapacity in the hall. She would not go -back. She could not pretend to make a search which she knew to be -useless. She could not rush to the door again and watch there, with the -risk of being followed and found at that post, and thus betray her -suspicion that her mother was out of the house. She went and stood by -one of the pillars and leaned against it, clasping her hands upon her -heart and trying to calm herself and to find some expedient. Could she -say that little Jack was ill, that something had happened? in the -confusion of her mind she almost lost the boundary between falsehood and -truth; but then the doctor would be sent to see what was the matter, and -everything would be worse instead of better. She stood thus against the -pillar and did not move, trying to think, in a whirl of painful -imaginations and self-questionings, feeling every moment an hour. Oh, if -she could but take it upon herself, and bear the weight, whatever it -might be; but she was helpless and could do nothing save wait there, -hidden, trembling, full of misery, till something should happen to set -her free.</p> - -<p>Young Hamerton in the conservatory naturally had none of these fears. He -thought that old Trevanion was (as indeed everybody knew) an old tyrant, -a selfish, ill-tempered egoist, caring for nothing but his own -indulgences. How he did treat that poor woman, to be sure! a woman far -too good for him whether it was true or not that he had married her -without a penny. He remembered vaguely that he had never heard who Madam -Trevanion was before her marriage. But what of that? He knew what she -was: a woman still full of grace and charm,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> though she was no longer in -her first youth. And what a life that old curmudgeon, that selfish old -skeleton, with all his fantastical complaints, led her! When a young man -has the sort of chivalrous admiration for an elder woman which Roland -Hamerton felt for the mistress of this house, he becomes sharp to see -the curious subjection, the cruelty of circumstances, the domestic -oppressions which encircle so many. And Madam Trevanion was more badly -off, more deeply tried, than any other woman, far or near. She was full -of spirit and intelligence, and interest in the higher matters of life; -yet she was bound to this fretful master, who would not let her out of -his sight, who cared for nothing better than a society newspaper, and -who demanded absolute devotion, and the submission of all his wife’s -wishes and faculties to his. Poor lady! no wonder if she were glad to -escape now and then for a moment, to get out of hearing of his sharp -voice, which went through your ears like a skewer.</p> - -<p>While these thoughts went through young Hamerton’s mind he had gradually -made his way through the conservatory, in which there was but one dim -lamp burning, to the farther part, which projected out some way with a -rounded end into the lawn which immediately surrounded the house. He was -much startled, as he looked cautiously forth, without being aware that -he was looking, to see something moving, like a repetition of the waving -branches and clouds above close to him upon the edge of a path which led -through the park. At first it was but movement and no more, -indistinguishable among the shadows. But he was excited by what he had -been hearing, and his attention was aroused. After a time he could make -out two figures more or less distinct, a man he thought and a woman, but -both so dark that it was only when by moments they appeared out of the -tree-shadows, with which they were confused, against the lighter color -of the gravel that he could make them out. They parted while he looked -on; the man disappeared among the trees; the other, he could see her -against the faint lightness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> the distance, stood looking after the -retreating figure; and then turned and came towards the house. Young -Hamerton’s heart leaped up in his breast. What did it mean? Did he -recognize the pose of the figure, the carriage of the head, the fine -movement, so dignified yet so free? He seized hold on himself, so to -speak, and put a violent stop to his own thoughts. She! madness! as soon -would he suppose that the queen could do wrong. It must be her maid, -perhaps some woman who had got the trick of her walk and air through -constant association: but she—</p> - -<p>Just then, while Hamerton retired somewhat sick at heart, and seated -himself near the door of the conservatory to recover, cursing as he did -so the sharp, scolding tones of Mr. Trevanion going on with his -grievances, Rosalind, standing against the pillar, was startled by -something like a step or faint stir outside, and then the sound, which -would have been inaudible to faculties less keen and highly strung, of -the handle of the glass door. It was turned almost noiselessly and some -one came in. Some one. Whom? With a shiver which convulsed her, Rosalind -watched: this dark figure might be any one—her mother’s maid, perhaps, -even Russell, gone out to pry and spy as was her way. Rosalind had to -clutch the pillar fast as she watched from behind while the new-comer -took a shawl from her head, and, sighing, arranged with her hands her -head-dress and hair. Whatever had happened to her she was not happy. She -sighed as she set in order the lace upon her head. Alas! the sight of -that lace was enough, the dim light was enough: no one else in the house -moved like that. It was the mother, the wife, the mistress of Highcourt, -Madam Trevanion, whom all the country looked up to for miles and miles -around. Rosalind could not speak. She detached her arms from the pillar -and followed like a white ghost as her stepmother moved towards the -drawing-room. In the night and dark, in the stormy wind amid all those -black trees, where had she been?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p>“I married her without a penny,” Mr. Trevanion was saying. “I was a fool -for my pains. If you think you will purchase attention and submission in -that way you are making a confounded mistake. Set a beggar on horseback, -that’s how it ends. A duke’s daughter couldn’t stand more by her own -way; no, nor look more like a lady,” he added with a sort of pride in -his property; “that must be allowed her. I married her without a penny; -and this is how she serves me. If she had brought a duchy in her apron, -or the best blood in England, like Rosalind’s mother, my first poor -wife, whom I regret every day of my life— O-h-h!—so you have -condescended, Madam, to come at last.”</p> - -<p>She was a tall woman, with a figure full of dignity and grace. If it was -true that nobody knew who she was, it was at least true also, as even -her husband allowed, that she might have been a princess so far as her -bearing and manners went. She was dressed in soft black satin which did -not rustle or assert itself, but hung in long sweeping folds, here and -there broken in outline by feathery touches of lace. Her dark hair was -still perfect in color and texture. Indeed, she was still under forty, -and the prime of her beauty scarcely impaired. There was a little fitful -color on her cheek, though she was usually pale, and her eyes had a kind -of feverish, suspicious brightness like sentinels on the watch for -danger signals. Yet she came in without hurry, with a smile from one to -another of the group of gentlemen, none of whom showed, whatever they -may have felt, any emotion. John Trevanion, still blank and quiet -against the firelight; the doctor, though he lifted his eyes -momentarily,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> still dropping through his hands, back and forwards, the -sliding, smooth surfaces of the cards. From the dimness in the -background Hamerton’s young face shone out with a sort of Medusa look of -horror and pain, but he was so far out of the group that he attracted no -notice. Mrs. Trevanion made no immediate reply to her husband. She -advanced into the room, Rosalind following her like a shadow. “I am -sorry,” she said calmly, “to be late: have you not begun your rubber? I -knew there were enough without me.”</p> - -<p>“There’s never enough without you,” her husband answered roughly; “you -know that as well as I do. If there were twice enough, what has that to -do with it? You know my play, which is just the one thing you do know. -If a man can’t have his wife to make up his game, what is the use of a -wife at all? And this is not the first time, Madam; by Jove, not the -first time by a dozen. Can’t you take another time for your nap, or your -nursery, or whatever it is? I don’t believe a word of the nursery. It is -something you don’t choose to have known, it is some of your low—”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, your father has no footstool,” said Mrs. Trevanion. She -maintained her calm unmoved. “There are some fresh cards, doctor, in the -little cabinet.”</p> - -<p>“And how the devil,” cried the invalid, in his sharp tones, “can I have -my footstool, or clean cards, or anything I want when you are -away—systematically away? I believe you do it on purpose to set up a -right—to put me out in every way, that goes without saying, that -everybody knows, is the object of your life.”</p> - -<p>Still she did not utter a word of apology, but stooped and found the -footstool, which she placed at her husband’s feet. “This is the one that -suits you best,” she said. “Come, John, if I am the culprit, let us lose -no more time.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Trevanion kicked the footstool away. “D’ye think I am going to be -smoothed down so easily?” he cried. “Oh, yes, as soon as Madam pleases, -that is the time for everything. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> shall not play. You can amuse -yourselves if you please, gentlemen, at Mrs. Trevanion’s leisure, when -she can find time to pay a little attention to her guests. Give me those -newspapers, Rosalind. Oh, play, play! by all means play! don’t let me -interrupt your amusement. A little more neglect, what does that matter? -I hope I am used to— Heaven above! they are not cut up. What is that -rascal Dorrington about? What is the use of a pack of idle servants? -never looked after as they ought to be; encouraged, indeed, to neglect -and ill-use the master that feeds them. What can you expect? With a -mistress who is shut up half her time, or out of the way or—What’s -that? what’s that?”</p> - -<p>It was a singular thing enough, and this sudden exclamation called all -eyes to it. Mrs. Trevanion, who had risen when her husband kicked his -footstool in her face, and, turning round, had taken a few steps across -the room, stopped with a slight start, which perhaps betrayed some alarm -in her, and looked back. The train of her dress was sweeping over the -hearthrug, and there in the full light, twisted into her lace, and -clinging to her dress, was a long, straggling, thorny branch, all wet -with the damp of night. Involuntarily they were all gazing— John -Trevanion looking down gravely at this strange piece of evidence which -was close to his feet; the doctor, with the cards in his hand, half -risen from his seat stooping across the table to see; while Rosalind, -throwing herself down, had already begun to detach it with hands that -trembled.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma!” cried the girl, with a laugh which sounded wild, “how -careless, how horrid of Jane! Here is a thorn that caught in your dress -the last time you wore it; and she has folded it up in your train, and -never noticed. Papa is right, the servants are—”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, Rose,” said Mr. Trevanion, with an angry chuckle of -satisfaction; “let alone! So, Madam, this is why we have to wait for -everything; this is why the place is left to <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span>itself; and I—I—the -master and owner, neglected. Good heavens above! while the lady of the -house wanders in the woods in a November night. With whom, Madam? With -whom?” he raised himself like a skeleton, his fiery eyes blazing out of -their sockets. “With whom, I ask you? Here, gentlemen, you are -witnesses; this is more serious than I thought. I knew my wishes were -disregarded, that my convenience was set at naught, that the very -comforts that are essential to my life were neglected, but I did not -think I was betrayed. With whom, Madam? Answer! I demand his name.”</p> - -<p>“Reginald,” said John Trevanion, “for God’s sake don’t let us have -another scene. You may think what you please, but we know all that is -nonsense. Neglected! Why she makes herself your slave. If the other is -as true as that! Doctor, can’t you put a stop to it? He’ll kill -himself—and her.”</p> - -<p>“Her! oh, she’s strong enough,” cried the invalid. “I have had my -suspicions before, but I have never uttered them. Ah, Madam! you thought -you were too clever for me. A sick man, unable to stir out of the house, -the very person, of course, to be deceived. But the sick man has his -defenders. Providence is on his side. You throw dust in the eyes of -these men; but I know you; I know what I took you from; I’ve known all -along what you were capable of. Who was it? Heaven above! down, down on -your knees, and tell me his name.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion was perfectly calm, too calm, perhaps, for the -unconsciousness of innocence; and she was also deadly pale. “So far as -the evidence goes,” she said quietly, “I do not deny it. It has not been -folded up in my train, my kind Rosalind. I have been out of doors; -though the night, as you see, is not tempting; and what then?”</p> - -<p>She turned round upon them with a faint smile, and took the branch out -of Rosalind’s hand. “You see it is all wet,” she said, “there is no -deception in it. I have been out in the park, on the edge of the woods. -Look, I did not stop even to change my shoes, they are wet too. And what -then?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span></p> - -<p>“One thing,” cried the doctor, “that you must change them directly, -before another word is said. This comes in my department, at least. We -don’t want to have you laid up with congestion of the lungs. Miss -Rosalind, take your mamma away, and make her, as we say in Scotland, -change her feet.”</p> - -<p>“Let her go altogether, if she pleases,” said the invalid; “I want to -see no more of her. In the park, in the woods—do you hear her, -gentlemen? What does a woman want in the woods in a winter night? Let -her have congestion of the lungs, it will save disgrace to the family. -For, mark my words, I will follow this out. I will trace it to the -foundation. Night after night she has done it. Oh, you think I don’t -know? She has done it again and again. She has been shameless; she has -outraged the very house where— Do you hear, woman? Who is it? My God! a -groom, or some low fellow—”</p> - -<p>The doctor grasped his arm with a hand that thrilled with indignation as -well as professional zeal, while John Trevanion started forward with a -sudden flush and menace—</p> - -<p>“If you don’t respect your wife, for God’s sake think of the girl—your -own child! If it were not for their sakes I should not spend another -night under this roof—”</p> - -<p>“Spend your night where you please,” said the infuriated husband, -struggling against the doctor’s attempt to draw him back into his chair. -“If I respect her? No, I don’t respect her. I respect nobody that -ill-uses me. Get out of the way, Rosalind! I tell you I’ll turn out that -woman. I’ll disgrace her. I’ll show what she’s made of. She’s thrown -dust in all your eyes, but never in mine. No, Madam, never in mine; -you’ve forgotten, I suppose, what you were when I took you and married -you, like a fool—but I’ve never forgotten; and now to break out at your -age? Who do you suppose can care for you at your age? It is for what he -can get, the villain, that he comes over an old hag like you. Oh, women, -women! that’s what women are. Turn out on a winter’s night to philander -in the woods with some one, some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span>—”</p> - -<p>He stopped, incapable of more, and fell back in his chair, and glared -and foamed insults with his bloodless lips which he had not breath to -speak.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion stood perfectly still while all this was going on. Her -face showed by its sudden contraction when the grosser accusations told, -but otherwise she made no movement. She held the long, dangling branch -in her hand, and looked at it with a sort of half-smile. It was so small -a matter to produce so much—and yet it was not a small matter. Was it -the hand of fate! Was it Providence, as he said, that was on his side! -But she did not say another word in self-defence. It was evident that it -was her habit to stand thus, and let the storm beat. Her calm was the -resignation of long usage, the sense that it was beyond remedy, that the -only thing she could do was to endure. And yet the accusations of this -evening were new, and there was something new in the contemplative way -in which she regarded this piece of evidence which had convicted her. -Hitherto the worst accusations that had rained upon her had been without -evidence, without possibility—and everybody had been aware that it was -so. Now there was something new. When she had borne vituperation almost -as violent for her neglect, for her indifference, sometimes for her -cruelty, the wrong had been too clear for any doubt. But now: never -before had there even been anything to explain. But the bramble was a -thing that demanded explanation. Even John Trevanion, the just and kind, -had shown a gleam of surprise when he caught sight of it. The good -doctor, who was entirely on her side, had given her a startled look. -Rosalind, her child, had put forth a hesitating plea—a little lie for -her. All this went to her heart with a wringing of pain, as if her very -heart had been crushed with some sudden pressure. But the habit of -endurance was unbroken even by these secret and novel pangs. She did not -even meet the eyes directed to her with any attempt at self-defence. But -yet the position was novel; and standing still in her old panoply of -patience, she felt it to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> be so, and that former expedients were -inadequate to the occasion. For the first time it would have better -become her to speak. But what? She had nothing to say.</p> - -<p>The scene ended as such scenes almost invariably ended here—in an -attack of those spasms which were wearing Mr. Trevanion’s life away. The -first symptoms changed in a moment the aspect of his wife. She put down -the guilty bramble and betook herself at once to her oft-repeated, -well-understood duty. The room was cleared of all the spectators, even -Rosalind was sent away. It was an experience with which the house was -well acquainted. Mrs. Trevanion’s maid came noiselessly and swift at the -sound of a bell, with everything that was needed; and the wife, so -angrily vituperated and insulted, became in a moment the devoted nurse, -with nothing in her mind save the care of the patient who lay helpless -in her hands. The doctor sat by with his finger on the fluttering -pulse—while she, now fanning, now bathing his forehead, following every -variation and indication of the attack, fulfilled her arduous duties. It -did not seem to cross her mind that anything had passed which could -slacken her vigilance or make her reluctant to fulfil those -all-absorbing duties; neither when the patient began to moan did there -seem any consciousness in him that the circumstances were anyhow -changed. He began to scold in broken terms almost before he had -recovered consciousness, demanding to know why he was there, what they -were doing to him, what was the occasion of the appliances they had been -using. “I’m all right,” he stammered, before he could speak, pushing -away the fan she was using. “You want to kill me. Don’t let her kill me, -doctor; take that confounded thing away. I’m—I’m—all right; I—I want -to get to bed. You are keeping me out of bed, on purpose—to kill me!” -he cried with a new outburst. “That is all right; he’ll do now,” said -the doctor, cheerfully. “Wait a moment, and we’ll get you to bed—” The -peaceful room had changed in the most curious way while all these rapid -changes had gone on. The very home of tranquillity at first,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> then a -stage of dramatic incident and passion, now a scene in which feeble life -was struggling with the grip of death at its throat. Presently all this -commotion and movement was over, and the palpitations of human existence -swept away, leaving, indeed, a little disorder in the surroundings; a -cushion thrown about, a corner of the carpet turned up, a tray with -water-bottles and essences on the table: but nothing more to mark the -struggle, the conflicts which had been, the suffering and misery. Yes; -one thing more: the long trail of bramble on another table, which was -the most fatal symbol of all.</p> - -<p>When everything was quiet young Hamerton, with a pale face, came out of -the conservatory. He had again retreated there when Mrs. Trevanion came -in, and the husband had begun to rage. It pained him to be a party to -it; to listen to all the abuse poured upon her was intolerable. But what -was more intolerable still was to remember what he had seen. That woman, -standing so pale and calm, replying nothing, bearing every insult with a -nobleness which would have become a saint. But, oh heavens! was it her -he had seen—her—under shelter of the night? The young man was generous -and innocent, and his heart was sick with this miserable knowledge. He -was in her secret. God help her! Surely she had excuse enough; but what -is to become of life or womanhood when such a woman requires an excuse -at all?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> hall was dimly lighted, the fire dying out in the great fireplace, -everything shadowy, cold, without cheer or comfort. Mr. Trevanion had -been conveyed to his room between the doctor and his valet, his wife -following, as usual, in the same order and fashion as was habitual, -without any appearance of change. Rosalind, who was buried in a great -chair, nothing visible but the whiteness of her dress in the imperfect -light,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> and John Trevanion, who stood before the fire there as he had -done in the drawing-room, with his head a little bent, and an air of -great seriousness and concern, watched the little procession without a -word as it went across the hall. These attacks were too habitual to -cause much alarm; and the outburst of passion which preceded was, -unfortunately, common enough also. The house was not a happy house in -which this volcano was ready to burst forth at any moment, and the usual -family subterfuges to conceal the family skeleton had become of late -years quite impossible, as increasing weakness and self-indulgence had -removed all restraints of self-control from the master of the house. -They were all prepared for the outbreak at any moment, no matter who was -present. But yet there were things involved which conveyed a special -sting to-night. When the little train had passed, the two spectators in -the hall remained for some time quite silent, with a heaviness and -oppression upon them which, perhaps, the depressing circumstances -around, the want of light and warmth and brightness, increased. They did -not, as on ordinary occasions, return to the drawing-room. For some time -they said nothing to each other. By intervals a servant flitted across -the hall, from one room to another, or the opening of a door roused -these watchers for a moment; but presently everything fell back into -stillness and the chill of the gathering night.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, I think you should go to bed—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John, how can I go to bed? How can any one in this house rest -or sleep?”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I admit that the circumstances are not very cheerful. Still, -you are more or less accustomed to them; and we shall sleep all the -same, no doubt, just as we should sleep if we were all to be executed -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Should we? but not if some one else, some one we loved—was to -be—executed, as you say.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps that makes a little difference: while the condemned man sleeps, -I suppose his mother or his sister, poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> wretches, are wakeful enough. -But there is nothing of that kind in our way, my little Rose. Come! it -is no worse than usual: go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“It is worse than usual. There has never before—oh!” the girl cried, -clasping her hands together with a vehement gesture. Her misery was too -much for her: and then another sentiment came in and closed her mouth. -Uncle John was very tender and kind, but was he not on <i>the other side</i>?</p> - -<p>“My dear,” he said gently, “I think it will be best not to discuss the -question. If there is something new in it, it will develop soon enough. -God forbid! I am little disposed, Rosalind, to think that there is -anything new.”</p> - -<p>She did not make any reply. Her heart was sore with doubt and suspicion; -the more strange these sentiments, all the more do they scorch and -sting. In the whirl which they introduced into her mind she had been -trying in vain to get any ground to stand upon. There might have been -explanations; but then how easy to give them, and settle the question. -It is terrible, in youth, to be thrown into such a conflict of mind, and -all the more to one who has never been used to think out anything alone, -who has shared with another every thought that arose in her, and -received on everything the interchanged ideas of a mind more -experienced, wiser, than her own. She was thus suddenly cut off from her -anchors, and felt herself drifting on wild currents unknown to her, -giddy, as if buffeted by wind and tide—though seated there within the -steadfast walls of an old house which had gone through all extremities -of human emotion, and never quivered, through hundreds of troublous -years.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said John Trevanion, after a pause, “that it would be good -for you to have a little change. Home, of course, is the best place for -a girl. Still, it is a great strain upon young nerves. I wonder we none -of us have ever thought of it before. Your aunt Sophy would be glad to -have you, and I could take you there on my way. I really think, -Rosalind, this would be the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> best thing you could do. Winter is closing -in, and in present circumstances it is almost impossible to have -visitors at Highcourt. Even young Hamerton, how much he is in the way; -though he is next to nobody, a young fellow! Come! you must not stay -here to wear your nerves to fiddlestrings. I must take you away.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at him with an earnest glance which he was very conscious -of, but did not choose to meet. “Why at this moment above all others?” -she said.</p> - -<p>“Why? that goes without saying, Rosalind. Your father, to my mind, has -never been so bad; and your— I mean Madam—”</p> - -<p>“You mean my mother, Uncle John. Well! is she not my mother? I have -never known any other. Poor dear little mamma was younger than I am. I -never knew her. She is an angel in heaven, and she cannot be jealous of -any one on earth. So you think that because papa has never been so ill, -and my mother never had so much to bear, it would be the right thing for -me, the eldest, the one that can be of most use, to go away?”</p> - -<p>“She has her own children, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, to be sure. Rex, who is at school, and knows about as much of what -she needs as the dogs do; and little Sophy, who is barely nine. You must -think very little of Rosalind, uncle, if you think these children can -make up for me.”</p> - -<p>“I think a great deal of Rosalind; but we must be reasonable. I thought -a woman’s own children, however little worth they may be in themselves, -were more to her than any one else’s. Perhaps I am wrong, but that’s in -all the copybooks.”</p> - -<p>“You want to make me believe,” said Rosalind, with passion, “that I am -nobody’s child, that I have no right to love or any home in all the -world!”</p> - -<p>“My dear! this is madness, Rose. There is your father: and I hope even I -count for something; you are the only child<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> I shall ever love. And your -aunt Sophy, for whom, in fact, I am pleading, gives you a sort of -adoration.”</p> - -<p>She got up hastily out of the great gloomy house of a chair and came -into the dim centre of light in which he stood, and clasped his arm with -her hands. “Uncle John,” she said, speaking very fast and almost -inarticulately, “I am very fond of you. You have always been so good and -kind; but I am her, and she is me. Don’t you understand? I have always -been with her since I was a child. Nobody but me has seen her cry and -break down. I know her all through and through. I think her thoughts, -not my own. There are no secrets between us. She does not require even -to speak, I know what she means without that. There are no secrets -between her and me—”</p> - -<p>“No secrets,” he said; “no secrets! Rosalind, are you so very sure of -that—now?”</p> - -<p>Her hands dropped from his arm: she went back and hid herself, as if -trying to escape from him and herself in the depths of the great chair; -and then there burst from her bosom, in spite of her, a sob—suppressed, -restrained, yet irrestrainable—the heaving of a bosom filled to -overflowing with unaccustomed misery and pain.</p> - -<p>John Trevanion did not take advantage of this piteous involuntary -confession. He paused a little, being himself somewhat overcome. “My -dear little girl,” he said at last, “I am talking of no terrible -separation. People who are the most devoted to each other, lovers even, -have to quit each other occasionally, and pay a little attention to -other ties. Come! you need not take this so tragically. Sophy is always -longing for you. Your father’s sister, and a woman alone in the world; -don’t you think she has a claim too?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind had got herself in check again while he was speaking. “You mean -a great deal more than that,” she said.</p> - -<p>Once more he was silent. He knew very well that he meant a great deal -more than that. He meant that his niece should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> be taken away from the -woman who was not her mother, a woman of whom he himself had no manner -of doubt, yet who, perhaps—how could any one tell?—was getting weary -of her thankless task, and looking forward to the freedom to come. John -Trevanion’s mind was not much more at rest than that of Rosalind. He had -never been supposed to be a partisan of his brother’s wife, but perhaps -his abstention from all enthusiasm on this subject was out of too much, -not too little feeling. He had been prejudiced against her at first; but -his very prejudice had produced a warm revulsion of feeling in her -favor, when he saw how she maintained her soul, as she went over the -worse than red-hot ploughshares of her long ordeal. It would have -injured, not helped her with her husband, had he taken her part; and -therefore he had refrained with so much steadiness and gravity, that to -Rosalind he had always counted as on the other side. But in his heart he -had never been otherwise than on the side of the brave woman who, -whether her motives had been good or bad in accepting that place, had -nevertheless been the most heroic of wives, the tenderest of mothers. It -gave him a tender pleasure to be challenged and defied by the generous -impetuosity of Rosalind, all in arms for the mother of her soul. -But—there was a but, terrible though it was to acknowledge it—he had -recognized, as soon as he arrived on this visit, before any indication -of suspicion had been given, that there was some subtile change in Madam -Trevanion—something furtive in her eye, a watchfulness, a standing on -her guard, which had never been there before. It revolted and horrified -him to doubt his sister-in-law; he declared to himself with anxious -earnestness that he did not, never would or could doubt her; and yet, in -the same breath, with that terrible indulgence which comes with -experience, began in an under-current of thought to represent to himself -her terrible provocations, the excuses she would have, the temptations -to which she might be subject. A man gets his imagination polluted by -the world even when he least wishes it. In the upper-current of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> his -soul he believed in her with faith unbounded; but underneath was a -little warping eddy, a slimy under-draught which brought up silently the -apologies, the reasons, the excuses for her. And if, by any -impossibility, it should be so, then was it not essential that Rosalind, -too pure to imagine, too young to know any evil or what it meant, or how -it could be, should be withdrawn? But he was no more happy than Rosalind -was, in the conflict of painful thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I mean more than that,” he resumed, after an interval. “I mean -that this house, at present, is not a comfortable place. You must see -now that even you cannot help Mrs. Trevanion much in what she has to go -through. I feel myself entirely <i>de trop</i>. No sympathy I could show her -would counter-balance the pain she must feel in having always present -another witness of your father’s abuse—”</p> - -<p>“Sympathy!” said Rosalind, with surprise. “I never knew you had any -sympathy. I have always considered you as on the other side.”</p> - -<p>“Does she think so?” he asked quickly, with a sharp sound of pain in his -voice; then recollected himself in another moment. “Ah, well,” he said, -“that’s natural, I suppose; the husband’s family are on his side—yes, -yes, no doubt she has thought so: the more right am I in my feeling that -my presence just now must be very distasteful. And even you, Rosalind; -think what she must feel to have all that dirt thrown at her in your -presence. Do you think the privilege of having a good cry, as you say, -when you are alone together, makes up to her for the knowledge that you -are hearing every sort of accusation hurled at her head? I believe in my -heart,” he added hurriedly, with a fictitious fervor, “that it would be -the greatest relief possible to her to have the house to herself, and -see us all, you included, go away.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind did not make any reply. She gazed at him from her dark corner -with dilated eyes, but he did not see the trouble of her look, nor -divine the sudden stimulus his words had given<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> to the whirl of her -miserable thoughts. She said to herself that her mother would know, -whoever doubted her, that Rosalind never would doubt; and at the same -time there came a wondering horror of a question whether indeed her -mother would be glad to be rid of her, to have her out of the way, to -keep her at least unconscious of the other thing, the secret, perhaps -the wrong, that was taking place in those dark evening hours? Might it -be, as Uncle John said, better to fly, to turn her back upon any -revelation, to refuse to know what it was. The anguish of this conflict -of thought tore her unaccustomed heart in twain. And then she tried to -realize what the house would be without her, with that profound yet -perfectly innocent self-importance of youth which is at once so futile -and so touching. So sometimes a young creature dying will imagine, with -far more poignant regret than for any suffering of her own, the blank of -the empty room, the empty chair, the melancholy vacancy in the house, -when she or he has gone hence and is no more. Rosalind saw the great -house vacant of herself with a feeling that was almost more than she -could bear. When her mother came out of the sick-room, to whom would she -go for the repose, the soothing of perfect sympathy—upon whom would she -lean when her burden was more than she could bear? When Sophy’s lessons -were over, where would the child go? Who would write to Rex, and keep -upon the schoolboy the essential bond of home? Who would play with the -babies in the nursery when their mother was too much occupied to see -them? Mamma would have nobody but Russell, who hated her, and her own -maid Jane, who was like her shadow, and all the indifferent servants who -cared about little but their own comfort. As she represented all these -details of the picture to herself, she burst forth all at once into the -silence with a vehement “No, no!” John Trevanion had fallen into -thought, and the sound of her voice made him start. “No, no!” she cried, -“do you think, Uncle John, I am of so little use? Everybody, even papa, -would want me. Sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> he will bid me sit down, that I am something -to look at, something not quite so aggravating as all the rest. Is not -that something for one’s father to say? And what would the children do -without me, and Duckworth, who cannot always see mamma about the dinner? -No, no, I am of use here, and it is my place. Another time I can go to -Aunt Sophy—later on, when papa is—better—when things are going -smoothly,” she said, with a quiver in her voice, holding back. And just -then the distant door of Mr. Trevanion’s room opened and closed, and the -doctor appeared, holding back the heavy curtains that screened away -every draught from the outer world.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“Well</span>,” said Dr. Beaton, rubbing his hands as he came forward, “at last -we are tolerably comfortable. I have got him to bed without much more -difficulty than usual, and I hope he will have a good night. But how -cold it is here! I suppose, however careful you may be, it is impossible -to keep draughts out of an apartment that communicates with the open -air. If you will take my advice, Miss Rosalind, you will get to your -warm room, and to bed, while your uncle and I adjourn to the -smoking-room, where there are creature comforts—”</p> - -<p>The doctor was always cheerful. He laughed as if all the incidents of -the evening had been the most pleasant in the world.</p> - -<p>“Is papa better, doctor?”</p> - -<p>“Is Mrs. Trevanion with my brother?”</p> - -<p>These two questions were asked together. The doctor answered them both -with a “Yes—yes—where would she be but with him? My dear sir, you are -a visitor, you are not used to our ways. All that is just nothing. He -cannot do without her. We know better, Miss Rosalind; we take it all -very easy. Come, come, there is nothing to be disturbed about. I will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> -have you on my hands if you don’t mind. My dear young lady, go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“I have been proposing that she should go to her aunt for a week or two -for a little change.”</p> - -<p>“The very best thing she could do. This is the worst time of the year -for Highcourt. So much vegetation is bad in November. Yes—change by all -means. But not,” said the doctor, with a little change of countenance, -“too long, and not too far away.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think,” said Rosalind, “that mamma will not want me to-night? -then I will go as you say. But if you think there is any chance that she -will want me—”</p> - -<p>“She will not leave the patient again. Good-night, Miss Rosalind, sleep -sound and get back your roses—or shall I send you something to make you -sleep? No? Well, youth will do it, which is best.”</p> - -<p>She took her candle, and went wearily up the great staircase, pausing, a -white figure in the gloom, to wave her hand to Uncle John before she -disappeared in the gallery above. The two men stood and watched her -without a word. A tender reverence and pity for her youth was in both -their minds. There was almost an oppression of self-restraint upon them -till she was out of sight and hearing. Then John Trevanion turned to his -companion:</p> - -<p>“I gather by what you say that you think my brother worse to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Not worse to-night; but only going the downhill road, and now and then -at his own will and pleasure putting on a spurt. The nearer you get to -the bottom the greater is the velocity. Sometimes the rate is terrifying -at the last.”</p> - -<p>“And you think, accordingly, that if she goes away it must not be too -far; she must be within reach of a hasty summons?”</p> - -<p>Dr. Beaton nodded his head several times in succession. “I may be -mistaken,” he said, “there is a vitality that fairly surprises me; but -that is in any other case what I should say.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>“Have these outbursts of temper much to do with it? Are they -accelerating the end?”</p> - -<p>“That’s the most puzzling question you could ask. How is a poor medical -man, snatching his bit of knowledge as he can find it, to say yea or -nay? Oh yes, they have to do with it; everything has to do with it -either as cause or effect? If it were not perhaps for the temper, there -would be less danger with the heart; and if it were not for the weak -heart, there would be less temper. Do ye see? Body and soul are so -jumbled together, it is ill to tell which is which. But between them the -chances grow less and less. And you will see, by to-night’s experience, -it’s not very easy to put on the drag.”</p> - -<p>“And yet Mrs. Trevanion is nursing him, you say, as if nothing had -happened.”</p> - -<p>The doctor gave a strange laugh. “A sick man is a queer study,” he said, -“and especially an excitable person with no self-control and all nerves -and temper, like—if you will excuse me for saying so—your brother. Now -that he needs her he is very capable of putting all this behind him. He -will just ignore it, and cast himself upon her for everything, till he -thinks he can do without her again. Ah! it is quite a wonderful mystery, -the mind of a sick and selfish man.”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking rather of her,” said John Trevanion.</p> - -<p>“Oh! her?” said the doctor, waving his hand; “that’s simple. There’s -nothing complicated in that. She is the first to accept that grand -reason as conclusive, just that he has need of her. There’s a wonderful -philosophy in some women. When they come to a certain pitch they will -bear anything. And she is one of that kind. She will put it out of her -mind as I would put a smouldering bombshell out of this hall. At least,” -said the doctor, with that laugh which was so inappropriate, “I hope I -would do it, I hope I would not just run away. The thing with women is -that they cannot run away.”</p> - -<p>“These are strange subjects to discuss with—pardon me—a stranger; but -you are not a stranger—they can have no secrets<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> from you. Doctor, tell -me, is the scene to-night a usual one? Was there nothing particular in -it?”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion fixed very serious eyes—eyes that held the person they -looked on fast, and would permit no escape—on the doctor’s face. The -other shifted about uneasily from one foot to the other, and did his -utmost to avoid that penetrating look.</p> - -<p>“Oh, usual enough, usual enough; but there might be certain special -circumstances,” he said.</p> - -<p>“You mean that Mrs. Trevanion—”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you will take my opinion, she had probably been to see the -coachman’s wife, who is far from well, poor body; I should say that was -it. It is across a bit of the park, far enough to account for -everything.”</p> - -<p>“But why then not give so simple a reason?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! there you beat me; how can I tell? The way in which a thing -presents itself to a woman’s mind is not like what would occur to you -and me.”</p> - -<p>“Is the coachman’s wife so great a favorite? Has she been ill long, and -is it necessary to go to see her every night?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Trevanion,” said the doctor, “you are well acquainted with the -nature of evidence. I cannot answer all these questions. There is no one -near Highcourt, as you are aware, that does not look up to Madam; a -visit from her is better than physic. She has little time, poor lady, -for such kindness. With all that’s exacted from her, I cannot tell, for -my part, what other moment she can call her own.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion would not permit the doctor to escape. He held him still -with his keen eyes. “Doctor,” he said, “I think I am as much concerned -as you are to prove her in the right, whatever happens; but it seems to -me you are a special pleader—making your theory to fit the -circumstances, ingenious rather than certain.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. John Trevanion,” said the doctor, solemnly, “there is one thing I -am certain of, that yon poor lady by your brother’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> bedside is a good -woman, and that the life he leads her is just a hell on earth.”</p> - -<p>After this there was a pause. The two men stood no longer looking at -each other: they escaped from the scrutiny of each other, which they had -hitherto kept up, both somewhat agitated and shaken in the solicitude -and trouble of the house.</p> - -<p>“I believe all that,” said John Trevanion at last. “I believe every -word. Still— But yet—”</p> - -<p>Dr. Beaton made no reply. Perhaps these monosyllables were echoing -through his brain too. He had known her for years, and formed his -opinion of her on the foundation of long and intimate knowledge. But -still—and yet: could a few weeks, a few days, undo the experience of -years? It was no crime to walk across the park at night, in the brief -interval which the gentlemen spent over their wine after dinner. Why -should not Madam Trevanion take the air at that hour if she pleased? -Still he made no answer to that breath of doubt.</p> - -<p>The conversation was interrupted by the servants who came to close doors -and windows, and perform the general shutting-up for the night. Neither -of the gentlemen was sorry for this interruption. They separated to make -that inevitable change in their dress which the smoking-room demands, -with a certain satisfaction in getting rid of the subject, if even for a -moment. But when Dr. Beaton reached, through the dim passages from which -all life had retired, that one centre of light and fellowship, the sight -of young Hamerton in his evening coat, with a pale and disturbed -countenance, brought back to him the subject he had been so glad to -drop. Hamerton had forgotten his dress-coat, and even that smoking-suit -which was the joy of his heart. He had been a prisoner in the -drawing-room, or rather in the conservatory, while that terrible scene -went on. Never in his harmless life had he touched the borders of -tragedy before, and he was entirely unmanned. The doctor found him -sitting nervously on the edge of a chair, peering into the fire, his -face haggard, his eyes vacant and bloodshot. “I say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> doctor,” he said, -making a grasp at his arm, “I want to tell you; I was in there all the -time. What could I do? I couldn’t get out with the others. I had been in -the conservatory before—and I saw— Good gracious, you don’t think I -wanted to see! I thought it was better to keep quiet than to show that I -had been there all the time.”</p> - -<p>“You ought to have gone away with the others,” said the doctor, “but -there is no great harm done; except to your nerves; you look quite -shaken. He was very bad. When a man lets himself go on every occasion, -and does and says exactly what he has a mind to, that’s what it ends in -at the last. It is, perhaps, as well that a young fellow like you should -know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hang it,” said young Hamerton, “that is not the worst. I never was -fond of old Trevanion. It don’t matter so much about him.”</p> - -<p>“You mean that to hear a man bullying his wife like that makes you wish -to kill him, eh? Well, that’s a virtuous sentiment; but she’s been long -used to it. Let us hope she is like the eels and doesn’t mind—”</p> - -<p>“It’s not that,” said the youth again. John Trevanion was in no hurry to -appear, and the young man’s secret scorched him. He looked round -suspiciously to make sure there was no one within sight or hearing. -“Doctor,” he said, “you are Madam’s friend. You take her side?”</p> - -<p>Dr. Beaton, who was a man of experience, looked at the agitation of his -companion with a good deal of curiosity and some alarm. “If she had a -side, yes, to the last of my strength.”</p> - -<p>“Then I don’t mind telling you. When he began to swear— What an old -brute he is!”</p> - -<p>“Yes? when he began to swear—”</p> - -<p>“I thought they mightn’t like it, don’t you know? We’re old friends at -home, but still I have never been very much at Highcourt; so I thought -they mightn’t like to have me there. And I thought I’d just slip out of -the way into the conservatory, never thinking how I was to get back. I -went right in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> to the end part where there was no light. You can see out -into the park. I never thought of that. I was not thinking anything: -when I saw—”</p> - -<p>“Get it out, for Heaven’s sake! You had no right to be there. What did -you see? Some of the maids about—”</p> - -<p>“Doctor, I must get it off my mind. I saw Madam Trevanion parting -with—a man. I can’t help it, I must get it out. I saw her as plainly as -I see you.”</p> - -<p>The doctor was very much disturbed and pale, but he burst into a laugh. -“In a dark night like this! You saw her maid I don’t doubt, or a kitchen -girl with her sweetheart. At night all the cats are gray. And you think -it is a fine thing to tell a cock-and-bull story like this—you, a -visitor in the house?”</p> - -<p>“Doctor, you do me a great deal of injustice.” The young man’s heart -heaved with agitation and pain. “Don’t you see it is because I feel I -was a sort of eavesdropper against my will, that I must tell you? Do you -think Madam Trevanion could be mistaken for a maid? I saw her—part from -him and come straight up to the house—and then, in another moment, she -came into the room, and I—I saw all that happened there.”</p> - -<p>“For an unwilling witness, Mr. Hamerton, you seem to have seen a great -deal,” said the doctor, with a gleam of fury in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“So I was—unwilling, most unwilling: you said yourself my nerves were -shaken. I’d rather than a thousand pounds I hadn’t seen her. But what am -I to do? If there was any trial or anything, would they call me as a -witness? That’s what I want to ask. In that case I’ll go off to America -or Japan or somewhere. They sha’n’t get a word against her out of me.”</p> - -<p>The moral shock which Dr. Beaton had received was great, and yet he -scarcely felt it to be a surprise. He sat for some moments in silence, -pondering how to reply. The end of his consideration was that he turned -round upon the inquirer with a laugh. “A trial,” he said, “about what? -Because Mr. Trevanion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> is nasty to his wife, and says things to her a -man should be ashamed to say? Women can’t try their husbands for being -brutes, more’s the pity! and she is used to it; or because (if it was -her at all) she spoke to somebody she met—a groom most likely—and gave -him his orders! No, no, my young friend, there will be no trial. But for -all that,” he added, somewhat fiercely, “I would advise you to hold your -tongue on the subject now that you have relieved your mind. The -Trevanions are kittle customers when their blood’s up. I would hold my -tongue for the future if I were you.”</p> - -<p>And then John Trevanion came in, cloudy and thoughtful, in his -smoking-coat, with a candle in his hand.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Reginald Trevanion</span> of Highcourt had made at thirty a marriage which was -altogether suitable, and everything that the marriage of a young squire -of good family and considerable wealth ought to be, with a young lady -from a neighboring county with a pretty face and a pretty fortune, and -connections of the most unexceptionable kind. He was not himself an -amiable person even as a young man, but no one had ever asserted that -his temper or his selfishness or his uneasy ways had contributed to -bring about the catastrophe which soon overwhelmed the young household. -A few years passed with certain futile attempts at an heir which came to -nothing; and it was thought that the disappointment in respect to -Rosalind, who obstinately insisted upon turning out a girl, -notwithstanding her poor young mother’s remorseful distress and her -father’s refusal to believe that Providence could have played him so -cruel a trick, had something to do with the gradual fading away of young -Madam Trevanion. She died when Rosalind was but a few weeks old, and her -husband, whom all the neighborhood credited with a broken heart, -disappeared shortly after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> into that vague world known in a country -district as “Abroad;” where healing, it is to be supposed, or at least -forgetfulness, is to be found for every sorrow. Nothing was known of him -for a year or two. His brother, John Trevanion, was then a youth at -college, and, as Highcourt was shut up during its master’s absence, -disposed of his vacation among other branches of the family, and never -appeared; while Sophy, the only sister, who had married long before, was -also lost to the district. And thus all means of following the widower -in his wanderings were lost to his neighbors. When Mr. Trevanion -returned, three years after his first wife’s death, the first intimation -that he had married again was the appearance of the second Madam -Trevanion by his side in the carriage. The servants, indeed, had been -prepared by a letter, received just in time to enable them to open -hurriedly the shut-up rooms, and make ready for a lady; but that was -all. Of course, as everybody allowed, there was nothing surprising in -the fact. It is to be expected that a young widower, especially if -heartbroken, will marry again; the only curious thing was that no public -intimation of the event should have preceded the arrival of the pair. -There had been nothing in the papers, no intimation “At the British -Embassy—,” no hint that an English gentleman from one of the Midland -counties was about to bring home a charming wife. And, as a matter of -fact, nobody had been able to make out who Mrs. Trevanion was. Her -husband and she had met abroad. That was all that was ever known. For a -time the researches of the parties interested were very active, and all -sorts of leading questions were put to the new wife. But she was of -force superior to the country ladies, and baffled them all. And the calm -of ordinary existence closed over Highcourt, and the questions in course -of time were forgot. Madam Trevanion was not at all of the class of her -predecessor. She was not pretty like that gentle creature. Even those -who admired her least owned that she was striking, and many thought her -handsome,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> and some beautiful. She was tall; her hair and her eyes were -dark; she had the wonderful grace of bearing and movement which is -associated with the highest class, but no more belongs to it exclusively -than any other grace or gift. Between Madam Trevanion and the Duchess of -Newbury, who was herself a duke’s daughter, and one of the greatest -ladies in England, no chance spectator would have hesitated for a moment -as to which was the highest; and yet nobody knew who she was. It was -thought by some persons that she showed at first a certain hesitation -about common details of life which proved that she had not been born in -the purple. But, if so, all that was over before she had been a year at -Highcourt, and her manners were pronounced by the best judges to be -perfect. She was not shy of society as a novice would have been, nor was -her husband diffident in taking her about, as a proud man who has -married beneath him so generally is. They accepted all their invitations -like people who were perfectly assured of their own standing, and they -saw more company at Highcourt than that venerable mansion had seen -before for generations. And there was nothing to which society could -take exception in the new wife. She had little Rosalind brought home at -once, and was henceforth as devoted as any young mother could be to the -lovely little plaything of a three-years-old child. Then she did her -duty by the family as it becomes a wife to do. The first was a son, as -fine a boy as was ever born to a good estate, a Trevanion all over, -though he had his mother’s eyes—a boy that never ailed anything, as -robust as a young lion. Five or six others followed, of whom two died; -but these were ordinary incidents of life which establish a family in -the esteem and sympathy of its neighbors. The Trevanions had fulfilled -all that was needed to be entirely and fully received into the regard of -the county when they “buried,” as people say, their two children. Four -remained, the first-born, young Reginald, and his next sister, who were -at the beginning of this history fourteen and nine respectively,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> and -the two little ones of five and seven, who were also, to fulfil all -requirements, girl and boy.</p> - -<p>But of all these Rosalind had remained, if that may be said of a -step-child when a woman has a family of her own, the favorite, the -mother’s constant companion, everything that an eldest girl could be. -Neither the one nor the other ever betrayed a consciousness that they -were not mother and daughter. Mr. Trevanion himself, when in his -capricious, irritable way he permitted any fondness to appear, preferred -Reginald, who was his heir and personal representative. But Rosalind was -always by her mother’s side. But for Russell, the nurse, and one or two -other injudicious persons, she would probably never have found out that -Madam was not her mother; but the discovery had done good rather than -harm, by inspiring the natural affection with a passionate individual -attachment in which there were all those elements of choice and -independent election which are the charm of friendship. Mrs. Trevanion -was Rosalind’s example, her heroine, the perfect type of woman to her -eyes. And, indeed, she was a woman who impressed the general mind with -something of this character. There are many good women who do not do so, -who look commonplace enough in their life, and are only known in their -full excellence from some revelation afterwards of heroism unknown. But -Mrs. Trevanion carried her diploma in her eyes. The tenderness in them -was like sunshine to everybody about her who was in trouble. She never -was harsh, never intolerant, judged nobody—which in a woman so full of -feeling and with so high a standard of moral excellence was -extraordinary. This was what gave so great a charm to her manners. A -well-bred woman, even of an inferior type, will not allow a humble -member of society to feel himself or herself <i>de trop</i>; but there are -many ways of doing this, and the ostentatious way of showing exaggerated -attention to an unlucky stranger is as painful to a delicate mind as -neglect. But this was a danger which Mrs. Trevanion avoided. No one -could tell what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> the rank was of the guests in her drawing-room, whether -it was the duchess or the governess that was receiving her attentions. -They were all alike gentlewomen in this gracious house. The poor, who -are always the hardest judges of a new claimant of their favor, and who -in this case were much set on finding out that a woman who came from -“abroad” could be no lady, gave in more reluctantly, yet yielded too -like their betters—with the exception of Russell and the family in the -village to which she belonged. These were the only enemies, so far as -any one was aware, whom Madam possessed, and they were enemies of a -visionary kind, in no open hostility, receiving her favors like the -rest, and kept in check by the general state of public opinion. Still, -if there was anything to be found out about the lady of Highcourt, these -were the only hostile bystanders desirous of the opportunity of doing -her harm.</p> - -<p>But everything had fallen into perfect peace outside the house for -years. Now and then, at long intervals, it might indeed be remarked in -the course of a genealogical conversation such as many people love, that -it was not known who Mrs. Trevanion the second had been. “His first wife -was a Miss Warren, one of the Warrens of Warrenpoint. The present -one—well, I don’t know who she was; they married abroad.” But that was -all that now was ever said. It would be added probably that she was very -handsome, or very nice, or quite <i>comme il faut</i>, and so her defect of -parentage was condoned. Everything was harmonious, friendly, and -comfortable outside. The county could not resist her fine manners, her -looks, her quiet assumption of the place that belonged to her. But -within doors Mrs. Trevanion soon came to know that no very peaceful life -was to be expected. There were people who said that she had not the look -of a happy woman even when she first came home. In repose her face was -rather sad than otherwise at all times. Mr. Trevanion was still in the -hot fit of a bridegroom’s enthusiasm when he brought her home, but even -then he was the most troublesome, the most exacting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> the most fidgety -of bridegrooms. Her patience with all his demands was boundless. She -would change her dress half a dozen times in an evening to please him. -She would start off with him on a sudden wild expedition at half an -hour’s notice, without a word or even look of annoyance. And when the -exuberance of love wore off, and the exactions continued, with no longer -caresses and sweet words, but blame and reproach and that continual -fault-finding which it is so hard to put up with amiably, Mrs. Trevanion -still endured everything, consented to everything, with a patience that -would not be shaken. It was now nearly ten years since the heart-disease -which had brought him nearly to death’s door first showed itself. He had -rheumatic fever, and then afterwards, as is so usual, this terrible -legacy which that complaint leaves behind it. From that moment, of -course, the patience which had been so sweetly exercised before became a -religious duty. It was known in the house that nothing must cross or -agitate or annoy Mr. Trevanion. But, indeed, it was not necessary that -anything should annoy him; he was his own chief annoyance, his own -agitator. He would flame up in sudden wrath at nothing at all, and turn -the house upside down, and send everybody but his wife flying, with -vituperations which scarcely the basest criminal could have deserved. -And his wife, who never abandoned him, became the chief object of these -passionate assaults. He accused her of every imaginable fault. He began -to talk of all she owed him, to declare that he married her when she had -nothing, that he had taken her out of the depths, that she owed -everything to him; he denounced her as ungrateful, base, trying to -injure his health under pretence of nursing him, that she might get the -power into her own hands. But she would find out her mistake, he said; -she would learn, when he was gone, the difference between having a -husband to protect her and nobody. To all these wild accusations and -comments the little circle round Mrs. Trevanion had become familiar and -indifferent. “Pegging away at Madam, as usual,” Mr. Dorrington,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> the -butler, said. “Lord, I’d let him peg! I’d leave him to himself and see -how he likes it,” replied the cook and housekeeper. No one had put the -slightest faith in the objurgations of the master. To Rosalind they were -the mere extravagances of that mad temper which she had been acquainted -with all her life. What her father said about his wife was about as -reasonable as his outburst of certainty that England was going to the -devil when the village boys broke down one of the young trees. She did -not judge papa for such a statement. She cried a little at his -vehemence, which did himself so much harm, and laughed a little -secretly, with a heavy sense of guilt, at his extravagance and -exaggerations. Poor papa! it was not his fault, it was because he was so -ill. He was too weak and ailing to be able to restrain himself as other -people did. But he did not mean it—how could he mean it? To say that -mamma wanted to break his neck if she did not put his pillow as he liked -it, to accuse her of a systematic attempt to starve him if his luncheon -was two minutes late or his soup not exactly to his taste—all that was -folly. And no doubt it was also folly, all that about raising her from -nothing and taking her without a penny. Rosalind, though very much -disturbed when she was present at one of these scenes, yet permitted -herself to laugh at it when it was over or she had got away. Poor papa! -and then when he had raged himself into a fit of those heart-spasms he -was so ill; how sad to see him suffering so terribly, gasping for -breath! Poor papa! to think that he did so much to bring it on himself -was only a pity the more.</p> - -<p>Thus things had gone on for years. When Dr. Beaton came to live in the -house there had been a temporary amendment. The presence of a stranger, -perhaps, had been a check upon the patient; and perhaps the novelty of a -continual and thoroughly instructed watcher—who knew how to follow the -symptoms of the malady, and foresaw an outburst before it came—did -something for him; and certainly there had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> an amendment. But by -and by familiarity did away with these advantages. Dr. Beaton exhausted -all the resources of his science, and Mr. Trevanion ceased to be upon -his guard with a man whom he saw every day. Thus the house lived in a -forced submission to the feverish vagaries of its head; and he himself -sat and railed at everybody, pleased with nothing, claiming every -thought and every hour, but never contented with the service done him. -And greater and greater became the force of his grievances against his -wife and his sense of having done everything for her; how he had stood -by her when nobody else would look at her, how he had lifted her out of -some vague humiliation and abandonment, how she owed him everything, yet -treated him with brutal carelessness, and sought his death, were the -most favorite accusations on his lips. Mrs. Trevanion listened with a -countenance that rarely showed any traces of emotion. She had shrunk a -little at first from these painful accusations; but soon had come to -listen to them with absolute calm. She had borne them like a saint, like -a philosopher; and yet within the last month everybody saw there had -been a change.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Mrs. Trevanion came to Highcourt, she brought with her a maid who -had, during all the sixteen years of her married life, remained with her -without the slightest breach of fidelity or devotion. Jane was, the -household thought, somewhat like her mistress, a resemblance in all -likelihood founded upon the constant attendance of the one upon the -other, and the absorbing admiration, rising almost to a kind of worship, -with which Jane regarded her lady. After all, it was only in figure and -movement, not in face, that the resemblance existed. Jane was tall like -Mrs. Trevanion. She had caught something of that fine poise of the head, -something of the grace, which distinguished her mistress; but whereas -Mrs. Trevanion was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> beautiful, Jane was a plain woman, with somewhat -small eyes, a wide mouth, and features that were not worth considering. -She was of a constant paleness and she was marked with smallpox, neither -of which are embellishing. Still, if you happened to walk behind her -along one of the long passages, dressed in one of Madam’s old gowns, it -was quite possible that you might take her for Madam. And Jane was not a -common lady’s maid. She was entirely devoted to her mistress, not only -to her service, but to her person, living like her shadow—always in her -rooms, always with her, sharing in everything she did, even in the -nursing of Mr. Trevanion, who tolerated her presence as he tolerated -that of no one else. Jane sat, indeed, with the upper servants at their -luxurious and comfortable table, but she did not live with them. She had -nothing to do with their amusements, their constant commentary upon the -family. One or two butlers in succession—for before Mr. Trevanion gave -up all active interference in the house there had been a great many -changes in butlers—had done their best to make themselves agreeable to -Jane; but though she was always civil, she was cold, they said, as any -fish, and no progress was possible. Mrs. Jennings, the cook and -housekeeper, instinctively mistrusted the quiet woman. She was a deal -too much with her lady that astute person said. That was deserting her -own side: for do not the masters form one faction and the servants -another? The struggle of life may be conducted on more or less honorable -terms, but still a servant who does not belong to his own sphere is -unnatural, just as a master is who throws himself into the atmosphere of -the servants’ hall. The domestics felt sure that such a particular union -between the mistress and the maid could not exist in the ordinary course -of affairs, and that it must mean something which was not altogether -right. Jane never came, save for her meals, to the housekeeper’s room. -She was always up-stairs, in case, she said, that she should be wanted. -Why should she be wanted more than any other person in her position? -When now and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> then Mrs. Trevanion, wearied out with watching and -suffering, hurried to her room to rest, or to bathe her aching forehead, -or perhaps even to lighten the oppression of her heart by a few tears, -Jane was always there to soothe and tend and sympathize. The other -servants knew as well as Jane how much Madam had to put up with, but yet -they thought it very peculiar that a servant should be so much in her -mistress’s confidence. There was a mystery in it. It had been suspected -at first that Jane was a poor relation of Madam’s; and the others -expected jealously that this woman would be set over their heads, and -themselves humiliated under her sway. But this never took place, and the -household changed as most households change, and one set of maids and -men succeeded each other without any change in Jane. There remained a -tradition in the house that she was a sort of traitor in the camp, a -servant who was not of her own faction, but on the master’s side; but -this was all that survived of the original prejudice, and no one now -expected to be put under the domination of Jane, or regarded her with -the angry suspicion of the beginning, or supposed her to be Madam’s -relation. Jane, like Madam, had become an institution, and the present -generation of servants did not inquire too closely into matters of -history.</p> - -<p>This was true of all save one. But there was one person in the house who -was as much an institution as Jane, or even as Jane’s mistress, with -whom nobody interfered, and whom it was impossible to think of as -dethroned or put aside from her supreme place. Russell was in the -nursery what Madam herself was in Highcourt. In that limited but -influential domain she was the mistress, and feared nobody. She had been -the chosen of the first Mrs. Trevanion, and the nurse of Rosalind, with -whom she had gone to her Aunt Sophy’s during Mr. Trevanion’s widowhood, -and in charge of whom she had returned to Highcourt when he married. -Russell knew very well that the estates were entailed and that Rosalind -could not be the heir, but yet she resented the second marriage as if it -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> been a wrong done at once to herself and her charge. If Jane was of -Madam’s faction, Russell was of a faction most strenuously and sternly -antagonistic to Madam. The prejudice which had risen up against the lady -who came from abroad, and whom nobody knew, and which had died away in -the course of time, lived and survived in this woman with all the force -of the first day. She had been on the watch all these years to find out -something to the discredit of her mistress, and no doubt the sentiment -had been strengthened by the existence of Jane, who was a sort of rival -power in her own sphere, and lessened her own importance by being as -considerable a person as herself. Russell had watched these two women -with a hostile vigilance which never slackened. She was in her own -department the most admirable and trustworthy of servants, and when she -received Mrs. Trevanion’s babies into her charge, carried nothing of her -prejudice against their mother into her treatment of them. If not as -dear to her as her first charge, Rosalind, they were still her children, -Trevanions, quite separated in her mind from the idea of their mother. -Perhaps the influence of Russell accounted for certain small griefs -which Madam had to bear as one of the consequences of her constant -attendance on her husband, the indifference to her of her little -children in their earlier years. But she said to herself with a -wonderful philosophy that she could expect no less; that absorbed as she -was in her husband’s sick-room all day, it was not to be expected that -the chance moments she could give to the nursery would secure the easily -diverted regard of the babies, to whom their nurse was the principal -figure in earth and heaven. And that nurse was so good, so careful, so -devoted, that it would have been selfishness indeed to have deprived the -children of her care because of a personal grievance of this kind. “Why -should Russell dislike me so much?” she would say sometimes to Rosalind, -who tried to deny the charge, and Jane, who shook her head and could not -explain. “Oh, dear mamma, it is only her temper. She does not mean it,” -Rosalind would say. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> Madam, who had so much to suffer from temper in -another quarter, did not reject the explanation. “Temper explains a -great many things,” she said, “but even that does not quite explain. She -is so good to the children and hates their mother. I feel I have a foe -in the house so long as she is here.” Rosalind had a certain love for -her nurse, notwithstanding her disapproval of her, and she looked up -with some alarm. “Do you mean to send her away?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Rosalind,” said Jane, “my lady is right. It is a foe and nothing -less, a real enemy she has in that woman; if she would send Russell away -I’d be very glad for one.”</p> - -<p>“You need not fear, my love,” Madam said. “Hush, Jane, if she is my foe, -you are my partisan. I will never send Russell away, Rosalind; but when -the children are grown up, if I live to see it, or if she would be so -kind as to marry, and go off in a happy way, or even if when <i>you</i> are -married she preferred to go with you— I think I should draw my breath -more freely. It is painful to be under a hostile eye.”</p> - -<p>“The nurse’s eye, mamma, and you the mistress of the house!”</p> - -<p>“It does not matter, my dear. I have always had a sympathy for Haman, -who could not enjoy his grandeur for thinking of that Jew in the gate -that was always looking at him so cynically. It gets unendurable -sometimes. You must have a very high opinion of yourself to get over the -low view taken of you by that sceptic sitting in the gate. But now I -must go to your father,” Mrs. Trevanion said. She had come up-stairs -with a headache, and had sat down by the open window to get a little -air, though the air was intensely cold and damp. It was a refreshment, -after the closeness of the room in which the invalid sat with an -unvarying temperature and every draught shut out. Rosalind stood behind -her mother’s chair with her hands upon Mrs. Trevanion’s shoulders, and -the tired woman leaned back upon the girl’s young bosom so full of life. -“But you will catch cold at the window, my Rose! No, it does me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> good, I -want a little air, but it is too cold for you. And now I must go back to -your father,” she said, rising. She stooped and kissed the cheek of the -girl she loved, and went away with a smile to her martyrdom. These -moments of withdrawal from her heavy duties were the consolations of her -life.</p> - -<p>“Miss Rosalind,” said Jane, “that you should love your old nurse I don’t -say a word against it—but if ever there is a time when a blow can be -struck at my lady that woman will do it. She will never let the little -ones be here when their mamma can see them. They’re having their sleep, -or they’re out walking, or they’re at their lessons; and Miss Sophy the -same. And if ever she can do us an ill turn—”</p> - -<p>“How could she do you an ill turn? That is, Jane, I beg your pardon, she -might, perhaps, be nasty to <i>you</i>—but, mamma! What blow, as you call -it, can be struck at mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how can I tell?” said Jane; “I never was clever; there’s things -happening every day that no one can foresee; and when a woman is always -watching to spy out any crevice, you never can tell, Miss Rosalind, in -this world of trouble, what may happen unforeseen.”</p> - -<p>This speech made no great impression on Rosalind’s mind at the time, but -it recurred to her after, and gave her more trouble than any wickedness -of Russell’s had power to do. In the meantime, leaving Jane, she went to -the nursery, and with the preoccupation of youth carried with her the -same subject, heedless and unthinking what conclusions Russell, whose -faculties were always alert on this question, might draw.</p> - -<p>“Russell,” she said, after a moment, “why are you always so disagreeable -to mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Rosalind, I do hate to hear you call her mamma. Why don’t you say -‘my stepmother,’ as any other young lady would in your place?”</p> - -<p>“Because she is not my stepmother,” said the girl, with a slight stamp -on the floor. “Just look at little Johnny, taking in all you say with -his big eyes. She is all the mother I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> have ever known, and I love her -better than any one in the world.”</p> - -<p>“And just for that I can’t bear it,” cried the woman. “What would your -own dear mamma say?”</p> - -<p>“If she were as jealous and ill-tempered as you I should not mind what -she said,” said the girl. “Don’t think, if you continue like this, you -will ever have any sympathy from me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Rosalind, what you are saying is as bad as swearing; worse, -it’s blasphemy; and the time will come when you’ll remember and be -sorry. No, though you think I’m a brute, I sha’n’t say anything before -the children. But the time will come—”</p> - -<p>“What a pity you are not on the stage, Russell! You would make a fine -Meg Merrilies, or something of that kind; the old woman that is always -cursing somebody and prophesying trouble. That is just what you are -suited for. I will come and see you your first night.”</p> - -<p>“Me! on the stage!” cried Russell, with a sense of outraged dignity -which words cannot express. Such an insult had never been offered to her -before. Rosalind went out of the room quickly, angry but laughing when -she had given this blow. She wanted to administer a stinging -chastisement, and she had done so. Her own cleverness in discovering -what would hit hardest pleased her. She began to sing, out of wrathful -indignation and pleasure, as she went down-stairs.</p> - -<p>“Me! on the stage!” Russell repeated to herself. A respectable upper -servant in a great house could not have had a more degrading suggestion -made to her. She could have cried as she sat there gnashing her teeth. -And this too was all on account of Madam, the strange woman who had -taken her first mistress’s place even in the heart of her own child. -Perhaps if Rosalind had treated her stepmother as a stepmother ought to -be treated, Russell would have been less antagonistic; but Mrs. -Trevanion altogether was obnoxious to her. She had come from abroad; she -had brought her own maid with her, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> entirely unsociable, and -never told anything; who was a stranger, a foreigner perhaps, for -anything that was known of her, and yet was Russell’s equal, or more, by -right of Madam’s favor, though Russell had been in the house for years. -What subtle antipathy there might be besides these tangible reasons for -hating them, Russell did not know. She only knew that from the first -moment she had set eyes upon her master’s new wife she had detested her. -There was something about her that was not like other women. There must -be a secret. When had it ever been known that a maid gave up -everything—the chat, the game at cards, the summer stroll in the park, -even the elegant civilities of a handsome butler—for the love of her -mistress? It was unnatural; no one had ever heard of such a thing. What -could it be but a secret between these women which held them together, -which it was their interest to conceal from the world? But the time -would come, Russell said to herself. If she watched night and day she -should find it out; if she waited for years and years the time and -opportunity would come at last.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> conversation, or series of conversations, took place shortly before -the time at which this history begins, and it was very soon after that -the strange course of circumstances commenced which was of so much -importance in the future life of the Trevanions of Highcourt. When the -precise moment was at which the attention of Rosalind was roused and her -curiosity excited, she herself could not have told. It was not until -Madam Trevanion had fallen for some time into the singular habit of -disappearing after dinner, nobody knew where. It had been very usual -with her to run up to the nursery when she left the dining-room, to see -if the children were asleep. Mr. Trevanion, when he was at all well, -liked to sit, if not over his wine, for he was abstemious by force of -necessity, yet at the table, talking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> with whomsoever might be his -guest. Though his life was so little adapted to the habits of -hospitality, he liked to have some one with whom he could sit and talk -after dinner, and who would make up his rubber when he went into the -drawing-room. He had been tolerably well, for him, during the autumn, -and there had been a succession of three-days’ visitors, all men, -succeeding each other, and all chosen on purpose to serve Mr. -Trevanion’s after-dinner talk and his evening rubber. And it was a -moment in which the women of the household felt themselves free. As for -Rosalind, she would establish herself between the lamp and the fire and -read a novel, which was one of her favorite pastimes; while Mrs. -Trevanion, relieved from the constant strain of attendance, would run -up-stairs, “to look at the children,” as she said. Perhaps she did not -always look long at the children, but this served as the pretext for a -moment of much-needed rest, Rosalind had vaguely perceived a sort of -excitement about her for some time—a furtive look, an anxiety to get -away from the table as early as possible. While she sat there she would -change color, as was not at all her habit, for ordinarily she was pale. -Now flushes and pallor contended with each other. When she spoke there -was a little catch as of haste and breathlessness in her voice, and when -she made the usual little signal to Rosalind her hand would tremble, and -the smile was very uncertain on her lip. Nor did she stop to say -anything, but hurried up-stairs like one who has not a moment to lose. -And it happened on several occasions that Mr. Trevanion and the guest -and the doctor were in the drawing-room, however long they sat, before -Madam had returned. For some time Rosalind took no notice of this. She -did not indeed remark it. It had never occurred to her to watch or to -inspect her stepmother’s conduct. Hitherto she had been convinced that -it was right always. She read her novel in her fireside corner, and -never discovered that there was any break in the usual routine. When the -first painful light burst upon her she could not tell. It was first a -word from Russell, then the sight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> of Jane gazing out very anxiously -upon the night, when it rained, from a large staircase window, and then -the aspect of affairs altogether. Mr. Trevanion began to remark very -querulously on his wife’s absence. Where was she? What did she mean by -always being out of the way just when he wanted her? and much more of -the same kind. And when Madam came in she looked flushed and hurried, -and brought with her a whole atmosphere of fresh out-door air from the -damp and somewhat chilly night. It was the fragrance and sensation of -this fresh air which roused Rosalind the most. It startled her with a -sense of something that was new, something that she did not understand. -The thought occurred to her next morning when she first opened her eyes, -the first thing that came into her mind. That sudden gush of fresh air, -how did it come? It was not from the nursery that one could bring an -atmosphere like that.</p> - -<p>And thus other days and other evenings passed. There was something new -altogether in Mrs. Trevanion’s face, a sort of awakening, but not to -happiness. When they drove out she was very silent, and her eyes were -watchful as though looking for something. They went far before the -carriage, before the rapid horses, with a watchful look. For whom could -she be looking? Rosalind ventured one day to put the question. “For -whom—could I be looking? I am looking for no one,” Mrs. Trevanion said, -with a sudden rush of color to her face; and whereas she had been -leaning forward in the carriage, she suddenly leaned back and took no -more notice, scarcely speaking again till they returned home. Such -caprice was not like Madam. She did everything as usual, fulfilled all -her duties, paid her calls, and was quite as lively and interested as -usual in the neighbors whom she visited, entering into their talk almost -more than was her habit. But when she returned to the society of her own -family she was not as usual. Sometimes there was a pathetic tone in her -voice, and she would excuse herself in a way which brought the tears to -Rosalind’s eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<p>“My dear,” she would say, “I fear I am bad company at present. I have a -great deal to think of.”</p> - -<p>“You are always the best of company,” Rosalind would say in the -enthusiasm of her affection, and Mrs. Trevanion looked at her with a -tender gratitude which broke the girl’s heart.</p> - -<p>“When I want people to hear the best that can be said of me, I will send -them to you, Rosalind,” she said. “Oh, what a blessing of God that you -should be the one to think most well of me! God send it may always be -so!” she added, with a voice full of feeling so deep and anxious that -the girl did not know what to think.</p> - -<p>“How can you speak so, mamma? Think well! Why, you are my mother; there -is nobody but you,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Do you know, Rosalind,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that the children who are -my very own will not take me for granted like you.”</p> - -<p>“And am not I your very own? Whom have I but you?” Rosalind said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion turned and kissed her, though it was in the public road. -Rosalind felt that her cheek was wet. What was the meaning of it? They -had always been mother and daughter in the fullest sense of the word, -unconsciously, without any remark, the one claiming nothing, the other -not saying a word of her devotion. It was already a painful novelty that -it should be mentioned between them how much they loved each other, for -natural love like this has no need of words.</p> - -<p>And then sometimes Madam would be severe.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said little Sophy on one of these drives, “there is somebody -new living in the village—a gentleman—well, perhaps not a gentleman. -Russell says nobody knows who he is. And he gets up in the middle of the -day, and goes out at night.”</p> - -<p>“I should not think it could be any concern of yours who was living in -the village,” Mrs. Trevanion said, far more hastily and hotly than her -wont.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, but mamma, it is so seldom any one comes; and he lives at the Red -Lion; and it is too late for sketching, so he can’t be an artist; and, -mamma, Russell says—”</p> - -<p>“I will not have Russell fill your head with the gossip of the village,” -said Madam, with a flush of anger. “You are too much disposed to talk -about your neighbors. Tell Russell I desire you to have nothing to do -with the village news—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but mamma, it isn’t village news, it’s a stranger. Everybody wants -to find out about a stranger; and he is so—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion gave a slight stamp of impatience and anger. “You have -still less to do with strangers. Let me hear no more about this,” she -said. She did not recover from the thrill of irritation during the whole -course of the drive. Sophy, who was unused to such vehemence, retired -into sulkiness and tears, while Rosalind, wounded a little to see that -her mother was fallible, looked on, surprised. She who was never put -out! And then again Madam Trevanion came down from her eminence and made -a sort of excuse which troubled her young adorer almost more than the -fact. “I am afraid I am growing irritable. I have so much to think of,” -she said.</p> - -<p>What was it she had to think of now above other times? Mr. Trevanion, -for him, was well. They had people staying in the house who amused him; -and John Trevanion was coming, Uncle John, whom everybody liked. And the -children were all well; and nothing wrong, so far as any one was aware, -in the business matters which Mrs. Trevanion bore the weight of to serve -her husband; the farms were all let, there was nothing out of gear -anywhere. What had she to think of? Rosalind was greatly, painfully -puzzled by this repeated statement. And by degrees her perplexity grew. -It got into the air, and seemed to infect all the members of the -household. The servants acquired a watchful air. The footman who came in -to take away the teacups looked terribly conscious that Madam was late. -There was a general watchfulness about. You could not cross the hall, or -go up-stairs, or go through a corridor from one part<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> of the house to -another, without meeting a servant who would murmur an apology, as if -his or her appearance was an accident, but who were all far too wide -awake and on the alert to have come there accidentally. Anxiety of this -kind, or even curiosity, is cumulative, and communicates itself -imperceptibly with greater and greater force as it goes on. And in the -midst of the general drama a curious side-scene was going on always -between the two great antagonists in the household—Russell and Jane. -They kept up a watch, each on her side. The one could not open her door -or appear upon the upper stairs without a corresponding click of the -door of the other; a stealthy inspection behind a pillar, or out of a -corner, to see what was going on; and both of them had expeditions of -their own which would not bear explanation, both in the house and -without. In this point Jane had a great advantage over her adversary. -She could go out almost when she pleased, while Russell was restrained -by the children, whom she could not leave. But Russell had other -privileges that made up for this. She had nursery-maids under her -orders; she had spies about in all sorts of places; her relations lived -in the village. Every piece of news, every guess and suspicion, was -brought to her. And she had a great faculty for joining her bits of -information together. By and by Russell began to wear a triumphant look, -and Jane a jaded and worn one; they betrayed in their faces the fact -that whatever their secret struggle was, one was getting the better of -the other. Jane gave Rosalind pathetic looks, as if asking whether she -might confide in her, while Russell uttered hints and innuendoes, -ending, indeed, as has been seen, in intimations more positive. When she -spoke so to Rosalind it may be supposed that she was not silent to the -rest of the house; or that she failed, with the boldness of her kind, to -set forth and explain the motives of her mistress. For some time before -the incident of the bramble, every one in the house had come to be fully -aware that Madam went out every evening, however cold, wet, and -miserable it might be. John Trevanion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> acquired the knowledge he could -not tell how; he thought it was from that atmosphere of fresh air which -unawares she brought with her on those occasions when she was late, when -the gentlemen had reached the drawing-room before she came in. This was -not always the case. Sometimes they found her there, seated in her usual -place, calm enough, save for a searching disquiet in her eyes, which -seemed to meet them as they came in, asking what they divined or knew. -They all knew—that is to say, all but Mr. Trevanion himself, whose -vituperations required no particular occasion, and ran on much the same -whatever happened, and the temporary three-days’ guest, who at the -special moment referred to was young Hamerton. Sometimes incidents would -occur which had no evident bearing upon this curious secret which -everybody knew, but yet nevertheless disturbed the brooding air with a -possibility of explosion. On one occasion little Sophy was the occasion -of a thrill in this electrical atmosphere which nobody quite understood. -The child had come in to dessert, and was standing by her father’s side, -consuming all the sweetmeats she could get.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma!” Sophy said suddenly and loudly, addressing her mother -across the table; “you know that gentleman at the Red Lion I told you -about?”</p> - -<p>“What gentleman at the Red Lion?” said her father, who had a keen ear -for gossip.</p> - -<p>“Do not encourage her, Reginald,” said Madam from the other end of the -table; “I cannot let her bring the village stories here.”</p> - -<p>“Let us hear about the gentleman from the Red Lion,” he said; “perhaps -it is something amusing. I never am allowed to hear what is going on. -Come, Sophy, what’s about him? We all want to know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but mamma will be so cross if I tell you! She will not let me say a -word. When I told her before she stamped her foot—”</p> - -<p>“Ha, Madam!” said the husband, “we’ve caught you. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> thought you were -one that never lost your temper. But Sophy knows better. Come, what of -this gentleman—”</p> - -<p>“I think, Rosalind, we had better go,” said Mrs. Trevanion, rising. “I -do not wish the child to bring tales out of the village. Sophy!” The -mother looked at her with eyes of command. But the little girl felt -herself the heroine of the occasion, and perfectly secure, held in her -father’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is only that nobody knows him!” she said in her shrill little -voice; “and he gets up in the middle of the day, and never goes out till -night. Russell knows all about him. Russell says he is here for no good. -He is like a man in a story-book, with such big eyes. Oh! Russell says -she would know him anywhere, and I think so should I—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion stood listening till all was said. Her face was perfectly -without color, her eyes blazing upon the malicious child with a strange -passion. What she was doing was the most foolish thing a woman could do. -Her anger succeeded by so strange a calm, the intense seriousness with -which she regarded what after all was nothing more than a childish -disobedience, gave the most exaggerated importance to the incident. Why -should she take it so seriously, everybody asked? What was it to her? -And who could hinder the people who were looking on, and knew that Madam -was herself involved in something unexplainable, something entirely new -to all her habits, from receiving this new actor into their minds as -somehow connected with it, somehow appropriated by her? When the child -stopped, her mother interfered again with the same exaggeration of -feeling, her very voice thrilling the tranquillity of the room as she -called Sophy to follow her. “Don’t beat her,” Mr. Trevanion called out, -with a chuckling laugh. “Sophy, if they whip you, come back to me. -Nobody shall whip you for answering your father. Come and tell me all -you hear about the gentleman, and never mind what Madam may say.”</p> - -<p>Sophy was frightened, however, there could be no doubt,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> as she followed -her mother. She began to cry as she crept through the hall. Mrs. -Trevanion held her head high; there was a red spot on each of her -cheeks. She paused for a moment and looked at Rosalind, as if she would -have spoken; then hurried away, taking no notice of the half-alarmed, -half-remorseful child, who stood and gazed after her, at once relieved -and disappointed. “Am I to get off?” Sophy whispered, pulling at -Rosalind’s dress. And then she burst into a sudden wail of crying: “Oh, -Rosalind, mamma has never said good-night!”</p> - -<p>“You do not deserve it, after having disobeyed her,” said Rosalind. And -with her young mind all confused and miserable, she went to the -drawing-room to her favorite seat between the fire and the lamp; but -though her novel was very interesting, she did not read it that night.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Next</span> day, as they drove out in the usual afternoon hour while Mr. -Trevanion took his nap after luncheon, a little incident happened which -was nothing, yet gave Rosalind, who was alone with her stepmother in the -carriage, a curious sensation. A little way out of the village, on the -side of the road, she suddenly perceived a man standing, apparently -waiting till they should pass. Madam had been very silent ever since -they left home, so much more silent than it was her habit to be that -Rosalind feared she had done something to incur Mrs. Trevanion’s -displeasure. Instead of the animated conversations they used to have, -and the close consultations that were habitual between them, they sat by -each other silent, scarcely exchanging a word in a mile. Rosalind was -not herself a great talker, but when she was with this other and better -self, she flowed forth in lively observation and remark, which was not -talk, but the involuntary natural utterance which came as easily as her -breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> This day, however, she had very little to say, and Madam -nothing. They leaned back, each in her corner, with a blank between -them, which Rosalind now and then tried to break with a wistful question -as to whether mamma was cold, whether she did not find the air too keen, -if she would like the carriage closed, etc., receiving a smile and a -brief reply, but no more. They had fallen into silence almost absolute -as they passed through the village, and it was when they emerged once -more into the still country road that the incident which has been -referred to took place. Some time before they came up to him, Rosalind -remarked the man standing under one of the hedgerow trees, close against -it, looking towards them, as if waiting for the carriage to pass. Though -she was not eager for the tales of the village like Sophy, Rosalind had -a country girl’s easily roused curiosity in respect to a stranger. She -knew at once by the outline of him, before she could make out even what -class he belonged to, that this was some one she had never seen before. -As the carriage approached rapidly she grew more and more certain. He -was a young man, a gentleman—at least his dress and attitude were like -those of a gentleman; he was slim and straight, not like the country -louts. As he turned his head towards the carriage, Rosalind thought she -had never seen a more remarkable face. He was very pale; his features -were large and fine, and his pallor and thinness were made more -conspicuous by a pair of very large, dreamy, uncertain dark eyes. These -eyes were looking so intently towards the carriage that Rosalind had -almost made up her mind that there was to be some demand upon their -sympathy, some petition or appeal. She could not help being stirred with -all the impetuosity of her nature, frank and warm-hearted and generous, -towards this poor gentleman. He looked as if he had been ill, as if he -meant to throw himself upon their bounty, as if— The horses sped on with -easy speed as she sat up in the carriage and prepared herself for -whatever might happen. It is needless to say that nothing happened as -far as the bystander<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> was concerned. He looked intently at them, but did -no more. Rosalind was so absorbed in a newly awakened interest that she -thought of nothing else, till suddenly, turning round to her companion, -she met—not her stepmother’s sympathetic countenance, but the blackness -of a veil in which Mrs. Trevanion had suddenly enveloped herself. “That -must surely be the gentleman Sophy was talking of,” she said. Madam gave -a slight shiver in her furs. “It is very cold,” she said; “it has grown -much colder since we came out.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I tell Robert to close the carriage, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, it is unnecessary. You can tell him to go home by the Wildwood -gate. I should not have come out if I had known it was so cold.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you have not taken cold, mamma. To me the air seems quite soft. -I suppose,” Rosalind said, in that occasional obtuseness which belongs -to innocence, “you did not notice, as you put down your veil just then, -that gentleman on the road? I think he must be the gentleman Sophy -talked about—very pale, with large eyes. I think he must have been ill. -I feel quite interested in him too.”</p> - -<p>“No, I did not observe—”</p> - -<p>“I wish you had noticed him, mamma. I should know him again anywhere; it -is quite a remarkable face. What can he want in the village? I think you -should make the doctor call, or send papa’s card. If he should be ill—”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, you know how much I dislike village gossip. A stranger in the -inn can be nothing to us. There is Dr. Smith if he wants anything,” said -Madam, hurriedly, almost under her breath. And she shivered again, and -drew her furred mantle more closely round her. Though it was November, -the air was soft and scarcely cold at all, Rosalind thought in her young -hardiness; but then Mrs. Trevanion, shut up so much in an overheated -room, naturally was more sensitive to cold.</p> - -<p>This was in the afternoon; and on the same evening there occurred the -incident of the bramble, and all the misery that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> followed, concluding -in Mr. Trevanion’s attack, and the sudden gloom and terror thrown upon -the house. Rosalind had no recollection of so trifling a matter in the -excitement and trouble that followed. She saw her stepmother again only -in the gray of the winter morning, when waking suddenly, with that sense -of some one watching her which penetrates the profoundest sleep, she -found Mrs. Trevanion seated by her bedside, extremely pale, with dark -lines under her eyes, and the air of exhaustion which is given by a -sleepless night.</p> - -<p>“I came to tell you, dear, that your father, at last, is getting a -little sleep,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma— But you have had no sleep—you have been up all night!”</p> - -<p>“That does not much matter. I came to say also, Rosalind, that I fear my -being so late last night and his impatience had a great deal to do with -bringing on the attack. It might be almost considered my fault.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma! we all know,” cried Rosalind, inexpressibly touched by the -air with which she spoke, “how much you have had to bear.”</p> - -<p>“No more than what was my duty. A woman when she marries accepts all the -results. She may not know what there will be to bear, but whatever it is -it is all involved in the engagement. She has no right to shrink—”</p> - -<p>There was a gravity, almost solemnity, in Madam’s voice and look which -awed the girl. She seemed to be making a sort of formal and serious -explanation. Rosalind had seen her give way under her husband’s cruelty -and exactions. She had seen her throw herself upon the bed and weep, -though there had never been a complaint in words to blame the father to -the child. This was one point in which, and in which alone, the fact -that Rosalind was his daughter, and not hers, had been apparent. Now -there was no accusation, but something like a statement, formal and -solemn, which was explained by the exhaustion and calm as of despair -that was in her face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span></p> - -<p>“That has been my feeling all through,” she said. “I wish you to -understand it, Rosalind. If Reginald were at home—well, he is a boy, -and I could not explain to him as I can to you. I want you to understand -me; I have had more to bear, a great deal more, than I expected. But I -have always said to myself it was in the day’s work. You may perhaps be -tempted to think, looking back, that I have had, even though he has been -so dependent upon me, an irritating influence. Sometimes I have myself -thought so, and that some one else— But if you will put one thing to -another,” she added, going on in the passionless, melancholy argument, -“you will perceive that the advantage to him of my knowledge of all his -ways counter-balances any harm that might arise from that; and then -there is always the doubt whether any one else would not have been -equally irritating after a time.”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” cried Rosalind, who had raised herself in her bed and was -gazing anxiously into the pale and worn-out face which was turned half -away from her, not looking at her; “mother! why do you say all this to -me? Do I want you to explain yourself, I who know that you have been the -best, the kindest—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion did not look at her, but put up her hand to stop this -interruption.</p> - -<p>“I am saying this because I think your father is very ill, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Worse, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“I have myself thought that he was growing much weaker. We flattered -ourselves, you know, that to be so long without an attack was a great -gain; but I have felt he was growing weaker, and I see now that Dr. -Beaton agrees with me. And to have been the means of bringing on this -seizure when he was so little able to bear it—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma! how can you suppose that any one would ever blame—”</p> - -<p>“I am my own judge, Rosalind. No, you would not blame me, not now at -least, when you are entirely under my influence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> I think, however, that -had it not been this it would have been something else. Any trifling -matter would have been enough. Nothing that we could have done would -have staved it off much longer. That is my conviction. I have worked out -the question, oh, a hundred times within myself. Would it be better to -go away, and acknowledge that I could not— I was doing as much harm as -good—”</p> - -<p>Rosalind here seized upon Mrs. Trevanion’s arm, clasping it with her -hands, with a cry of “Go away! leave us, mother!” in absolute -astonishment and dismay.</p> - -<p>“And so withdraw the irritation. But then with the irritation I should -have deprived him of a great deal of help. And there was always the -certainty that no other could do so much, and that any other would soon -become an irritation too. I have argued the whole thing out again and -again. And I think I am right, Rosalind. No one else could have been at -his disposal night and day like his wife. And if no one but his wife -could have annoyed him so much, the one must be taken with the other.”</p> - -<p>“You frighten me, mamma; is it so very serious? And you have done -nothing—nothing?”</p> - -<p>Here Mrs. Trevanion for the first time turned and looked into Rosalind’s -face.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said. There was a faint smile upon her lips, so faint that it -deepened rather than lightened the gravity of her look. She shook her -head and looked tenderly at Rosalind with this smile. “Ah, my dear,” she -said, “you would willingly make the best of it; but I have done -something. Not, indeed, what he thinks, what perhaps other people think, -but something I ought not to have done.” A deep sigh followed, a long -breath drawn from the inmost recesses of her breast to relieve some pain -or pressure there. “Something,” she continued, “that I cannot help, -that, alas! I don’t want to do; although I think it is my duty, too.”</p> - -<p>And then she was silent, sitting absorbed in her own thoughts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> by -Rosalind’s bed. The chilly winter morning had come in fully as she -talked till now the room was full of cold daylight, ungenial, unkindly, -with no pleasure in it. Rosalind in her eager youth, impatient of -trouble, and feeling that something must be done or said to make an end -of all misery, that it was not possible there could be no remedy, held -her mother’s hand between hers, and cried and kissed it and asked a -hundred questions. But Madam sat scarcely moving, her mind absorbed in a -labyrinth from which she saw no way of escape. There seemed no remedy -either for the ills that were apparent or those which nobody knew.</p> - -<p>“You ought at least to be resting,” the girl said at last; “you ought to -get a little sleep. I will get up and go to his room and bring you word -if he stirs.”</p> - -<p>“He will not stir for some time. No, I am not going to bed. After I have -bathed my face Jane will get me a cup of tea, and I shall go down again. -No, I could not sleep. I am better within call, so that if he wants -me— But I could not resist the temptation of coming in to speak to you, -Rosalind. I don’t know why—just an impulse. We ought not to do things -by impulse, you know, but alas! some of us always do. You will remember, -however, if necessary. Somehow,” she said, with a pathetic smile, her -lips quivering as she turned to the girl’s eager embrace, “you seem more -my own child, Rosalind, more my champion, my defender, than those who -are more mine.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing can be more yours, mother, all the more that we chose each -other. We were not merely compelled to be mother and child.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps there is something in that,” said Mrs. Trevanion.</p> - -<p>“And the others are so young; only I of all your children am old enough -to understand you,” cried Rosalind, throwing herself into her -stepmother’s arms. They held each other for a moment closely in that -embrace which is above words, which is the supreme expression of human -emotion and sympathy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> resorted to when all words fail, and yet which -explains nothing, which leaves the one as far as ever from understanding -the other, from divining what is behind the veil of individuality which -separates husband from wife and mother from child. Then Mrs. Trevanion -rose and put Rosalind softly back upon her pillow and covered her up -with maternal care as if she had been a child. “I must not have you -catch cold,” she said, with a smile which was her usual motherly smile -with no deeper meaning in it. “Now go to sleep, my love, for another -hour.”</p> - -<p>In her own room Madam exchanged a few words with Jane, who had also been -up all night, and who was waiting for her with the tea which is a tired -watcher’s solace. “You must do all for me to-day, Jane,” she said; “I -cannot leave Mr. Trevanion; I will not, which is more. I have been, -alas! partly the means of bringing on this attack.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam, how many attacks have there been before without any cause!”</p> - -<p>“That is a little consolation to me; still, it is my fault. Tell him how -unsafe it is to be here, how curious the village people are, and that I -implore him, for my sake, if he thinks anything of that, and for God’s -sake, to go away. What can we do more? Tell him what we have both told -him a hundred times, Jane!”</p> - -<p>“I will do what I can, Madam; but he pays no attention to me, as you -know.”</p> - -<p>“Nor to any one,” said Madam, with a sigh. “I have thought sometimes of -telling Dr. Beaton everything; he is a kind man, he would know how to -forgive. But, alas! how could I tell if it would do good or harm?”</p> - -<p>“Harm! only harm! He would never endure it,” the other said.</p> - -<p>Again Mrs. Trevanion sighed; how deep, deep down was the oppression -which those long breaths attempted to relieve. “Oh,” she said, “how -happy they are that never stray beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> the limits of nature! Would not -poverty, hard work, any privation, have been better for all of us?”</p> - -<p>“Sixteen years ago, Madam,” Jane said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Trevanion’s</span> attack wore off by degrees, and by and by he resumed his -old habits, appearing once more at dinner, talking as of old after that -meal, coming into the drawing-room for his rubber afterwards. Everything -returned into the usual routine. But there were a few divergences from -the former habits of the house. The invalid was never visible except in -the evening, and there was a gradual increase of precaution, a gradual -limitation of what he was permitted or attempted to do, which denoted -advancing weakness. John Trevanion remained, which was another sign. He -had made all his arrangements to go, and then after a conversation with -the doctor departed from them suddenly, and announced that if it did not -interfere with any of Madam’s arrangements he would stay till Christmas, -none of his engagements being pressing. Other guests came rarely, and -only when the invalid burst forth into a plaint that he never saw any -one, that the sight of the same faces day by day was enough to kill a -man. “And every one longer than the other,” he cried. “There is John -like a death’s head, and the doctor like a grinning waxwork, and -Madam—why, she is the worst of all. Since I interfered with her little -amusements, going out in the dark like one of her own housemaids, by -Jove, Madam has been like a whipped child. She that had always an -argument ready, she has taken up the submissive <i>rôle</i> at last. It’s a -new development. Eh? don’t you think so? Did you ever see Madam in the -<i>rôle</i> of Griselda before? I never did, I can tell you. It is a change! -It won’t last long, you think, John? Well, let us get the good of it -while we can. It is something quite novel to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<p>“I said nothing on the subject,” said John, “and indeed I think it would -be better taste to avoid personal observations.”</p> - -<p>“Especially in the presence of the person, eh? That’s not my way. I say -the worst I have to say to your face, so you need not fear what is said -behind your back— Madam knows it. She is so honest; she likes honesty. A -woman that has set herself to thwart and cross her husband for how -many—sixteen years, she can’t be in much doubt as to his opinion of -her, eh? What! will nothing make you speak?”</p> - -<p>“It is time for this tonic, Reginald. Dr. Beaton is very anxious that -you should not neglect it.”</p> - -<p>“Is that all you have got to say? That is brilliant, certainly; quinine, -when I want a little amusement. Bitter things are better than sweet, I -suppose you think. In that case I should be a robust fox-hunter instead -of an invalid, as I am—for I have had little else all my life.”</p> - -<p>“I think you have done pretty well in your life, Reginald. What you have -wanted you have got. That does not happen to all of us. Except health, -which is a great deduction, of course.”</p> - -<p>“What I have wanted! I wanted an heir and a family like other men, and I -got a poor little wife who died at nineteen, and a useless slip of a -girl. Then my second venture—perhaps you think my second venture was -very successful—a fine robust wife, and a mischievous brat like Rex, -always in scrapes at school, besides that little spiteful minx Sophy, -who would spite her own mother if she could, and the two imps in the -nursery. What good are they to me? The boy will succeed me, of course, -and keep you out. I had quite as lief you had it, John. You are my own -brother, after all, and that boy is more his mother’s than mine. He has -those eyes of hers. Lord! what a fool a young fellow is! To imagine I -should have given up so much when I ought to have known better, and -taken so many burdens on my shoulders for the sake of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> pair of fine -eyes. They are fine eyes still, but I know the meaning of them now.”</p> - -<p>“This is simply brutal, Reginald,” said his brother, in high -indignation. He got up to go away, but a sign from Mrs. Trevanion, -behind her husband’s back, made him pause.</p> - -<p>“Brutal, is it? which means true. Give me some of that eau-de-Cologne. -Can’t you be quick about it? You take half an hour to cross the room. -I’ve always meant to tell you about that second marriage of mine. I was -a fool, and she was— Shall I tell him all about it, Madam? when we met, -and how you led me on. By Jove! I have a great mind to publish the whole -business, and let everybody know who you are and what you are—or, -rather, were when I married you.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would do so, Reginald. The mystery has never been my doing. -It would be for my happiness if you would tell John.”</p> - -<p>The sick man looked round upon her with a chuckling malice. “She would -like to expose herself in order to punish me,” he said. “But I sha’n’t -do it; you may dismiss that from your mind. I don’t wish the country to -know that my wife was—” Then he ended with a laugh which was so -insulting that John Trevanion involuntarily clinched his fist and made a -step forward; then recollected himself, and fell back with a suppressed -exclamation.</p> - -<p>“It is quite natural you should take her part, Jack. She’s a fine woman -still of her years, though a good bit older than you would think. How -old were you, Madam, when I married you? Oh, old enough for a great deal -to have happened—eight-and-twenty or thereabouts—just on the edge of -being <i>passée</i> then, the more fool I! Jove! what a fool I was, thrusting -my head into the bag. I don’t excuse myself. I posed myself in those -days as a fellow that had seen life, and wasn’t to be taken in. But you -were too many for me. Never trust to a woman, John, especially a woman -that has a history and that sort of thing. You are never up to their -tricks. However knowing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> you may be, take my word for it, they know a -thing or two more than you.”</p> - -<p>“If you mean to do nothing but insult your wife, Reginald—”</p> - -<p>“John, for Heaven’s sake! What does it matter? You will think no worse -of me for what he says, and no better. Let him talk!” cried Madam, under -her breath.</p> - -<p>“What is she saying to you—that I am getting weak in my mind and don’t -know what I am saying? Ah! that’s clever. I have always expected -something of the sort. Look here, Madam! sit down at once and write to -Charley Blake, do you hear? Charley—not the old fellow. Ask him to come -here from Saturday to Monday, I want to have a talk with him. You are -not fond of Charley Blake. And tell him to bring all his tools with him. -He will know”—with a significant laugh—“what I mean.”</p> - -<p>She went to the writing-table without a word, and wrote the note. “Will -you look at it, Reginald, to see if it is what you wish.”</p> - -<p>The patient snarled at her with his laugh. “I can trust you,” he said, -“and you shall see when Blake comes.”</p> - -<p>“What do you want with Blake, Reginald? Why should you trouble yourself -with business in your present state of health? You must have done all -that is necessary long ago, I wish you would keep quiet and give -yourself a chance.”</p> - -<p>“A chance! that’s Beaton’s opinion, I suppose—that I have more than a -chance. That’s why you all gather round me like a set of crows, ready to -pounce upon the carcass. And Madam, Madam here, can scarcely hold -herself in, thinking how soon she will be free.” He pushed back his -chair, and gazed from one to another with fiery eyes which seemed ready -to burst from their sockets. “A chance! that’s all I’ve got, is it? You -needn’t wait for it, John; there’s not a penny for you.”</p> - -<p>“Reginald, what the doctor says is that you must be calm,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> that nothing -must be done to bring on those spasms that shake you so. Never mind what -John says; he does not know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you!” cried the sick man; “you—you’ve motive enough. It’s freedom -to you. I don’t tell you to scheme for it, I know that’s past praying -for. Nobody can doubt it’s worth your while—a good settlement, and -freedom to dance on my grave as soon as you like, as soon as you have -got me into it. But John has got no motive,” he said again, with a sort -of garrulous pathos; “he’ll gain nothing. He’ll rather lose something -perhaps, for he couldn’t have the run of the house if it were yours, as -he has done all his life. Yours!” the sick man added, with concentrated -wrath and scorn; “it shall never be yours; I shall see to that. Where is -the note to Charley—Charley Blake? John, take charge of it for me; see -that it’s put in the post. She has the bag in her hands, and how can I -tell whether she will let it go? She was a great deal too ready to write -it, eh? don’t you think, knowing it was against herself?”</p> - -<p>After this cheerful morning’s talk, which was the ordinary kind of -conversation that went on in Mr. Trevanion’s room, from which John -Trevanion could escape and did very shortly, but Madam could not and did -not, the heavy day went on, little varied. Mrs. Trevanion appeared at -lunch with a sufficiently tranquil countenance, and entered into the -ordinary talk of a family party with a composure or philosophy which was -a daily miracle to the rest. She checked little Sophy’s impertinences -and attended to the small pair of young ones like a mother embarrassed -with no cares less ignoble. There was an air of great gravity about her, -but not more than the critical condition of her husband’s health made -natural. And the vicar, who came in to lunch to ask after the squire, -saw nothing in Madam’s manner that was not most natural and seemly. He -told his wife afterwards that she took it beautifully; “Very serious, -you know, very anxious, but resigned and calm.” Mrs. Vicar was of -opinion that were she Mrs. Trevanion she would be more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> than resigned, -for everybody knew that Madam had “a great deal to put up with.” But -from her own aspect no one could have told the continual flood of insult -to which she was exposed, the secret anxiety that was gnawing at her -heart. In the evening, before dinner, she met her brother-in-law by -accident before the great fireplace in the hall. She was sitting there, -thrown down in one of the deep chairs, like a worn-out creature. It was -rare to see her there, though it was the common resort of the household, -and so much, in spite of himself, had John Trevanion been moved by the -sense of mystery about, and by his brother’s vituperations, that his -first glance was one of suspicion. But his approach took her by -surprise. Her face was hidden in her hands, and there was an air of -abandon in her attitude and figure as if she had thrown herself, like a -wounded animal, before the fire. She uncovered her face, and, he -thought, furtively, hastily dried her eyes as she turned to see who was -coming. Pity was strong in his heart, notwithstanding his suspicion, he -came forward and looked down upon her kindly. “I am very glad,” he said, -“to see that you are able to get a moment to yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “Reginald seems more comfortable to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Grace,” said John Trevanion, “it is beyond human patience. You ought -not to have all this to bear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing is beyond human patience,” she said, looking up at him -suddenly with a smile. “Never mind, I can bear it very well. After all, -there is no novelty in it to wound me. I have been bearing the same sort -of thing for many years.”</p> - -<p>“And you have borne it without a murmur. You are a very wonderful woman, -or—”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean? Do you think me a bad one? It would not be wonderful -after all you have heard. But I am not a bad woman, John. I am not -without blame; who is? But I am not what he says. This is mere weakness -to defend myself; but when one has been beaten down all day long by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> one -perpetual flood like a hailstorm— What was that? I thought I heard -Reginald’s voice.”</p> - -<p>“It was nothing; some of the servants. I am very sorry for you, Grace. -If anything can be done to ease you—”</p> - -<p>“Nothing can be done. I think talking does him good; and what is the use -of a man’s wife if not to hear everything he has to say? It diverts the -evil from others, and I hope from himself too. Yes, I do think so; it is -an unpleasant way of working it out, and yet I think, like the modes -they adopt in surgery sometimes, it relieves the system. So let him -talk,” she went on with a sigh. “It will be hard, though, if I am to -lose the support of your good opinion, John.”</p> - -<p>To this he made no direct answer, but asked, hurriedly, “What do you -suppose he wants with Charley Blake? Charley specially, not his father, -whom I have more faith in?”</p> - -<p>“Something about his will, I suppose. Oh, perhaps not anything of -consequence. He tries to scare me, threatening something—but it is not -for that that I am afraid.”</p> - -<p>“We shall be able to do you justice in that point. Of what are you -afraid?”</p> - -<p>She rose with a sudden impulse and stood by him in the firelight, almost -as tall as he, and with a certain force of indignation in her which gave -her an air of command and almost grandeur beside the man who suspected -and hesitated. “Nothing!” she said, as if she flung all apprehension -from her. John, whose heart had been turned from her, felt himself -melting against his will. She repeated after a time, more gently, “I -know that if passion can suggest anything it will be done. And he will -not have time to reconsider, to let his better nature—” (here she -paused, and in spite of herself a faint smile, in which there was some -bitterness, passed over her face) “his better nature speak,” she said, -slowly; “therefore I am prepared for everything and fear nothing.”</p> - -<p>“This sounds not like courage, but despair.”</p> - -<p>“And so it is. Is it wonderful that it should be despair<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> rather than -courage after all these years? I am sure there is something wrong. -Listen; don’t you hear it? That is certainly Reginald’s voice.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, you are excited. What could it be? He wants something, perhaps, -and he always calls loudly for whatever he wants. It is seldom I can see -you for a moment. I want to tell you that I will see Blake and find out -from him—”</p> - -<p>“I must go to Reginald, John.”</p> - -<p>She was interrupted before she had crossed the hall by the sudden -appearance of Russell, who pushed through the curtain which hung over -the passage leading to Mr. Trevanion’s room, muffling herself in it in -her awkwardness. The woman was scared and trembling. “Where’s Madam, -Madam?” she said. “She’s wanted; oh, she’s wanted badly! He’s got a fit -again.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion flew past the trembling woman like a shadow. “It is your -doing,” she said, with a voice that rung into Russell’s heart. The -intruder was entirely unhinged. “I never saw him in one before. It’s -dreadful; oh, it’s dreadful! Doctor! doctor! oh, where’s the doctor?” -she cried, losing all command of herself, and shrieking forth the name -in a way which startled the house. The servants came running from all -sides; the children, terror-stricken, half by the cry, half by the sound -of Russell’s voice, so familiar to them, appeared, a succession of -little wistful faces, upon the stair, while the doctor himself pushed -through, startled, but with all his wits about him. “How has it -happened? You’ve been carrying your ill-tempered chatter to him. I’ll -have you tried for manslaughter,” the doctor said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rosalind Trevanion</span> was a girl who had never had a lover—at least, such -was her own conviction. She even resented the fact a little, thinking it -wonderful that when all the girls in novels possessed such interests she -had none. To attain to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> the mature age of eighteen, in a wealthy and -well-known house where there were many visitors, and where she had all -the advantages that a good position can give, without ever having -received that sign of approbation which is conveyed by a declaration of -love, was very strange in the point of view of fiction. And as she had -few friends of her own age at hand to consult with, and an absorbing -attachment and friendship for an older woman to fill up the void, novels -were her chief informants as to the ordinary events of youthful life. It -is an unfortunate peculiarity of these works that their almost exclusive -devotion to one subject is too likely to confuse the ideas of young -women in this particular. In old-fashioned English fiction, and in the -latest American variety of the art, no girl who respected herself could -be satisfied with less than half a dozen proposals: which is a -circumstance likely to rouse painful questionings in the hearts of our -young contemporaries. Here was a girl not unconscious that she was what -is generally known as “a nice girl,” with everything favorable in her -circumstances; and yet she had not as yet either accepted or refused -anybody! It was curious. Young Hamerton, who had been staying at -Highcourt at the uncomfortable moment already described, was indeed -prone to seek her society, and unfolded himself rashly to her in talk, -with that indescribable fatuity which young men occasionally show in -presence of girls, moved perhaps by the too great readiness of the kind -to laugh at their jokes and accept their lead. Rosalind, protected by -her knowledge of minds more mature, looked upon Hamerton with a kind of -admiring horror, to think how wonderful it was that a man should be a -man, and superior to all women, and have an education such as women of -ambition admired and envied, and yet be such a ——. She did not say -fool, being very courteous, and unused to strong language. She only said -such a ——; and naturally could no more take him into consideration as a -lover than if he had been one of the footmen. It was not beyond her -consciousness either, perhaps, that Charley Blake, the son and partner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> -of the family lawyer, whom business often brought to Highcourt, -contemplated her often with his bold black eyes in a marked and -unmistakable way. But that was a piece of presumption which Miss -Trevanion thought of as a princess royal might regard the sighs of a -courtier. Rosalind had the eclectic and varying political views held by -young women of intelligence in the present time. She smiled at the old -Toryism about her. She chose her men and her measures from both parties, -and gave her favorites a hot but somewhat fluctuating support. She felt -very sure that of all things in the world she was not an aristocrat, -endeavoring to shut the gates of any exclusive world against success -(which she called genius); therefore it could not be this thoroughly -old-world feeling which prompted her disdain of Charley Blake. She was -of opinion that a poor man of genius struggling upward towards fame was -the sublimest sight on earth, and that to help in such a struggle was a -far finer thing for a woman to do than to marry a duke or a prince. But -no such person had ever come in her way, nor any one else so gifted, so -delightful, so brilliant, and so tender as to merit the name of a lover. -She was a little surprised, but referred the question to statistics, and -said to herself that because of the surplus of women those sort of -things did not happen nowadays: though, indeed, this was a theory -somewhat invalidated by the fact that most of the young ladies in the -county were married or about to be so. The position altogether did not -convey any sense of humiliation to Rosalind. It gave her rather a sense -of superiority, as of one who lifts her head in native worth superior to -the poor appreciation of the crowd. How the sense of being overlooked -should carry with it this sense of superiority is for the philosopher to -say.</p> - -<p>These thoughts belonged to the lighter and happier portion of her life, -and were at present subdued by very sombre reflections. When she walked -out in the morning after these events there was, however, a certain -sense of emancipation in her mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> Her father had again been very -ill—so ill that during the whole night the house had been on the alert, -and scarcely any one had ventured to go to bed. Rosalind had spent half -the night in the hall with her uncle, expecting every moment a summons -to the sick-room, to what everybody believed to be the deatbed of the -sufferer; and there had crept through the house a whisper, how -originating no one could tell, that it was after an interview with -Russell that the fit had come on, and that she had carried him some -information about Madam which had almost killed him. Nobody had any -doubt that it was to Madam that Russell’s report referred, and there -were many wonderings and questions in the background, where the servants -congregated, as to what it was. That Madam went out of nights; that she -met some one in the park, and there had long and agitated interviews; -that Jane knew all about it, more than any one, and could ruin her -mistress if she chose to speak; but that Russell too had found out a -deal, and that it had come to master’s ears through her; and full time -it did, for who ever heard of goings-on like this in a gentleman’s -house?—this is what was said among the servants. In superior regions -nothing was said at all. Rosalind and her uncle kept together, as -getting a vague comfort in the universal dreariness from being together. -Now and then John Trevanion stole to the door of his brother’s room, -which stood open to give all the air possible, to see or hear how things -were going. One time when he did so his face was working with emotion.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind,” he said, in the whisper which they spoke in, though had they -spoken as loudly as their voices would permit no sound could have -reached the sick-room; “Rosalind, I think that woman is sublime. She -knows that the first thing he will do will be to harm and shame her, and -yet there she is, doing everything for him. I don’t know if she is a -sinner or not, but she is sublime—”</p> - -<p>“Who are you speaking of as that woman?—of <small>MY MOTHER</small>, Uncle John?” -cried Rosalind, expanding and growing out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> her soft girlhood into a -sort of indignant guardian angel. He shook his head impatiently and sat -down; and nothing more was said between them till the middle of the -night, when Dr. Beaton coming in told them the worst was over, and for -the moment the sick man would “pull through.” “But I’ll have that nurse -in confinement. I’ll send her to the asylum. It is just manslaughter,” -he said. Russell, very pale and frightened, was at her door when -Rosalind went up-stairs.</p> - -<p>“The doctor says he will have you tried for manslaughter,” Rosalind -said, as she passed her. “No, I will not say good-night. You have all -but killed papa.”</p> - -<p>“It is not I that have killed him,” said Russell; “it’s those that do -what they didn’t ought to.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind, in her excitement, stamped her foot upon the floor.</p> - -<p>“He says you shall be sent to the asylum; and I say you shall be sent -away from here. You are a bad woman. Perhaps now you will kill the -children to complete your work. We are none of us safe so long as you -are here.”</p> - -<p>At this Russell gave a bitter cry and threw up her hands to heaven.</p> - -<p>“The children,” she cried, “that I love like my own—that I give my -heart’s blood for—not safe! Oh, Miss Rosalind! God forgive you!—you, -that I have loved the best of all!”</p> - -<p>“How should I forgive you?” cried Rosalind, relentless. “I will never -forgive you. Hate me if you please, but never dare to say you love me. -Love!—you don’t know what it is. You should go away to-night if it were -I who had the power and not mamma.”</p> - -<p>“She has the power yet. She will not have it long,” the woman cried, in -her terror and passion. And she shut herself up in her room, which -communicated with the children’s, and flung herself on the floor in a -panic which was perhaps as tragical as any of the other sensations of -this confused and miserable house.</p> - -<p>And yet when Rosalind went out next morning she was able<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> to withdraw -herself, in a way inconceivable to any one who has not been young and -full of imaginations, from the miseries and terrors of the night. Mr. -Trevanion was much exhausted, but living, and in his worn-out, feeble -state required constant care and nursing, without being well enough to -repay that nursing with abuse, as was his wont. Rosalind, with no one to -turn to for companionship, went out and escaped. She got clear of that -small, yet so important, world, tingling with emotion, with death and -life in the balance, and everything that is most painful in life, and -escaped altogether, as if she had possessed those wings of a dove for -which we all long, into another large and free and open world, in which -there was a wide, delightful air which blew in her face, and every kind -of curiosity and interest and hope. How it was she fell to thinking of -the curious fact that she had not, and had never had, a lover, at such a -moment, who can tell? Perhaps because it occurred to her at first that -it would be well to have something, somebody, to escape to and take -comfort in, when she was so full of trouble, without knowing that the -wide atmosphere and fresh sky and bare trees, that discharged, whenever -the breath of the wind touched them, a sharp little shower of -rain-drops, were enough at her age to woo her out of the misery which -was not altogether personal, though she was so wound up in the lives of -all the sufferers. She escaped. That thought about the lover, which was -intended to be pathetic, beguiled her into a faint laugh under her -breath; for indeed it was amusing, if even only ruefully amusing, to be -so unlike the rest of the young world. That opened to her, as it were, -the gate; and then her imagination ran on, like the lawless, sweet young -rover it was, to all kinds of things amusing and wonderful. Those whose -life is all to come, what a playground they have to fly into when the -outside is unharmonious! how to fill up all those years; what to do in -the time that is endless, that will never be done; how to meet those -strange events, those new persons, those delights and wonders that are -all waiting round the next and the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> corner! If she had thought of -it she would have been ashamed of herself for this very amusement, but -fortunately she did not think of it, and so let herself go, like the -child she was. She took her intended walk through the park, and then, as -the morning was bright, after lingering at the gate a little, went out -into the road, and turned to the village without any particular -intention, because it was near and the red roofs shone in the light. It -was a fresh, bright morning, such as sometimes breaks the dulness of -November. The sky was as blue as summer, with wandering white cloudlets, -and not a sign of any harm, though there had been torrents of rain the -night before. Indeed, no doubt it was the pouring down of those torrents -which had cleared away the tinge of darkness from the clouds, which were -as innocent and filmy and light as if it had been June. Everything was -glistening and gleaming with wet, but that only made the country more -bright, and as Rosalind looked along the road, the sight of the red -village with its smoke rising ethereal into air so pure that it was a -happiness to gaze into its limpid, invisible depths, or rather heights, -ending in heavens, was enough to cheer any young soul. She went on, with -a little sense of adventure, for though she often went to the village, -it was rare to this girl to have the privilege of being absolutely -alone. The fresh air, the glistening hedgerows, the village roofs, in -all the shining of the sunshine, pleased her so much that she did not -see till she was close to it a break in the road, where the water which -had submerged the low fields on either side had broken across the higher -ground, finding a sort of channel in a slight hollow of the road. The -sight of a laborer plashing through it, with but little thought, though -it came up to the top of his rough boots, arrested Rosalind all at once. -What was she to do? <i>Her</i> boots, though with the amount of high heel -which only a most independent mind can escape from, were clearly quite -unequal to this crossing. She could not but laugh to herself at the -small matter which stopped progress, and stood on the edge of it -measuring the distance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> with her eye, and calculating probabilities with -a smiling face, amused by the difficulty. While she stood thus she heard -a voice behind her calling to the laborer in front. “Hi!” some one said; -“Hallo, you there! help me to lift this log over the water, that the -lady may cross.” The person appealed to turned round, and so did -Rosalind. And then she felt that here was indeed an adventure. Behind -her, stooping over some large logs of wood on the side of the pathway, -was the man who had looked so intently at the carriage the other day -when she passed with her stepmother. Before she saw his face she was -sure, with a little jump of her heart, that it was the same man. He was -dressed in dark tweed clothes, somewhat rough, which might have been the -garb of a gentleman or of a gamekeeper, and did not fit him well, which -was more like the latter than the former. She could see, as he stooped, -his cheek and throat reddened as with the unusual exertion.</p> - -<p>“Oh, please do not take the trouble,” she cried; “it is of no -consequence. I have nothing to do in the village.”</p> - -<p>“It is no trouble,” he said; and in a minute or two the logs were rolled -across the side path so that she could pass. The man who had been called -upon to help was one of the farm-laborers whom she knew. She thanked him -cheerfully by name, and turned to the stranger, who stood with his hat -off, his pale face, which she remembered to have been so pale that she -thought him ill, now covered with a brilliant flush which made his eyes -shine. Rosalind was startled by the beauty of the face, but it was not -like that of the men she was accustomed to see. Something feminine, -something delicate and weak, was in it.</p> - -<p>“You are very kind to take so much trouble; but I am afraid you have -over-exerted yourself,” she cried.</p> - -<p>This made the young man blush more deeply still.</p> - -<p>“I am not very strong,” he said half indignantly, “but not so weak as -that.” There was a tone of petulance in the reply; and then he added, -“Whatever trouble it might be is more than repaid,” with a somewhat -elaborate bow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span></p> - -<p>What did it mean? The face was refined and full of expression, but then -probably he was not a gentleman, Rosalind thought, and did not -understand. She said hurriedly again, “I am very much obliged to you,” -and went on, a little troubled by the event. She heard him make a few -steps after her. Was he going to follow? In her surprise it was almost -on her lips to call back William from the farm.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, “but may I take the liberty of -asking how is Mr. Trevanion? I heard he was worse last night.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind turned round, half reassured.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do you know papa?” she said. “He has been very ill all night, but -he is better, though terribly exhausted. He has had some sleep this -morning.”</p> - -<p>She was elevated upon the log, which she had begun to cross, and thus -looked down upon the stranger. If he knew her father, that made all the -difference; and surely the face was one with which she was not -unfamiliar.</p> - -<p>“I do not know Mr. Trevanion, only one hears of him constantly in the -village. I am glad he is better.”</p> - -<p>He hesitated, as if he too was about to mount the log.</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you,” said Rosalind, hurrying on.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“To</span> whom were you talking, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“To—nobody, Uncle John!” she said, in her surprise at the sudden -question which came over her shoulder, and, turning round, waited till -he joined her. She had changed her mind and come back after she had -crossed the water upon the impromptu bridge, with a half apprehension -that her new acquaintance intended to accompany her to the village, and -had, to tell the truth, walked rather quickly to the park gates.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>“But I met the man—a young fellow—whose appearance I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I don’t know who it was either; a gentleman; at least, I suppose he -was a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“And yet you doubt. What cause had you to doubt?”</p> - -<p>“Well, Uncle John, his voice was nice enough, and what he said. The only -thing was, he paid me a sort of a—compliment.”</p> - -<p>“What was that?” said John Trevanion, quickly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing,” said Rosalind, inconsistently. “When I said I was sorry -he had taken the trouble, he said, ‘Oh, if it was any trouble it was -repaid.’ Nothing at all! Only a gentleman would not have said that to a -girl who was—alone.”</p> - -<p>“That is true; but it was not very much after all. Fashions change. A -few generations ago it would have been the right thing.” Then he dropped -the subject as a matter without importance, and drew his niece’s arm -within his own. “Rosie,” he said, “I am afraid we shall have to face the -future, you and I. What are we to do?”</p> - -<p>“Are things so very bad, Uncle John?” she cried, and the tears came -welling up into her eyes as she raised them to his face.</p> - -<p>“Very bad, I fear. This last attack has done him a great deal of harm, -more than any of the others; perhaps, because, as the doctor says, the -pace is quicker as he gets near the end, perhaps because he is still as -angry as ever, though he is not able to give it vent. I wonder if such -fury may not have some adequate cause.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John!” Rosalind cried; she clasped her hands upon his arm, -looking up at him through her tears. He knew what was the meaning in her -tone, though it was a meaning very hard to put into words. A child -cannot say of her father when he is dying that his fury has often been -without any adequate cause.</p> - -<p>“I know,” he said, “and I acknowledge that no one could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> have a more -devoted nurse. But whether there have not been concealments, clandestine -acts, things he has a right to find fault with—”</p> - -<p>“Even I,” said Rosalind, hastily, “and I have nothing to hide—even I -have had to make secrets from papa.”</p> - -<p>“That is the penalty, of course, of a temper so passionate. But she -should not have let you do so, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“It was not she. You think everything is her fault; oh, how mistaken you -are! My mother and I,” cried the girl, impetuously, “have no secrets -from each other.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion looked into the young, ingenuous countenance with -anxiety: “Then, Rosalind,” he said, “where is it that she goes? Why does -she go out at that hour of all others, in the dark? Whom does she meet? -If you know all this, I think there cannot be another word to say; for -nothing that is not innocent would be intrusted to you.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was silent. She ceased to look at him, and even withdrew her -clasping hands from his arm.</p> - -<p>“You have nothing to say? There it is: she has no secrets from you, and -yet you can throw no light on this one secret. I have always had a great -admiration and respect for your stepmother, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would not call her my stepmother! It hurts me. What other -mother have I ever known?”</p> - -<p>“My dear, your love for her is a defence in itself. But, Rosalind, -forgive me, there is some complication here. If she will not explain, -what are we to do? A mystery is always a sign of something wrong; at -least, it must be taken for something wrong if it remains unexplained. I -am, I hope, without passion or prejudice. She might have confided in -me—”</p> - -<p>“If there was anything to confide,” Rosalind said under her breath. But -he went on.</p> - -<p>“And now your father has sent for his lawyer—to do something, to change -something. I can’t tell what he means to do,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> but it will be trouble in -any case. And you, Rosalind—I said so before, you—must not stay here.”</p> - -<p>“If you mean that I am to leave my mother, Uncle John—”</p> - -<p>“Hush! not your mother. My dear, you must allow others to judge for you -here. Had you been her child it would have been different: but we must -take thought for your best interests. Who is that driving in at the -gate? Why, it is Blake already. I wonder if a second summons has been -sent. He was not expected till to-morrow. This looks worse and worse, -Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, if you will let me, I will run in another way. I—don’t -wish to meet Mr. Blake.”</p> - -<p>“Hallo, Rosalind! you don’t mean to say that Charley Blake has ever -presumed— Ah! this comes of not having a mother’s care.”</p> - -<p>“It is nothing of the kind,” she cried, drawing her hand violently from -his arm. “He hates her because she never would— Oh, how can you be so -cruel, so prejudiced, so unjust?” In her vehemence Rosalind pushed him -away from her with a force which made his steady, middle-aged figure -almost swerve, and darted across the park away from him just in time to -make it evident to Mr. Blake, driving his dog-cart quickly to make up to -the group in advance, that it was to avoid him Miss Trevanion had fled.</p> - -<p>“How is he?” was the eager question he put as he came up to John -Trevanion. “I hope I am not too late.”</p> - -<p>“For what? If it is my brother you mean, I hear he is a little better,” -said John, coldly.</p> - -<p>“Then I suppose it is only one of his attacks,” the new-comer said, with -a slight tone of disappointment; not that he had any interest in the -death of Mr. Trevanion, but that the fall from the excitement of a great -crisis to the level of the ordinary is always disagreeable. “I thought -from the telegram this morning there was no time to lose.”</p> - -<p>“Who sent you the telegram this morning?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<p>“Madam Trevanion, of course,” said the young man.</p> - -<p>This reply took John Trevanion so much by surprise that he went on -without a word.</p> - -<p>She knew very well what Blake’s visit portended to herself. But what a -strange, philosophical stoic was this woman, who did not hesitate -herself to summon, to hasten, lest he should lose the moment in which -she could still be injured, the executioner of her fate. A sort of awe -came over John. He begun to blame himself for his miserable doubts of -such a woman. There was something in this silent impassioned performance -of everything demanded from her that impressed the imagination. After a -few minutes’ slow pacing along, restraining his horse, Blake threw the -reins to his groom, and, jumping down, walked on by John Trevanion’s -side.</p> - -<p>“I suppose there is no such alarming hurry, then,” he said. “Of course -you know what’s up now?”</p> - -<p>“If you mean what are my brother’s intentions, I know nothing about -them,” John said.</p> - -<p>“No more do I. I can’t think what he’s got in his mind; though we have -been very confidential over it all.” Mr. Blake elder was an -old-fashioned and polite old gentleman, but his son belonged to another -world, and pushed his way by means of a good deal of assurance and no -regard to any one’s feelings. “It would be a great assistance to me,” he -said, “if he’s going to tamper with that will again, to know how the -land lies. What is wrong? There must have been, by all I hear, a great -flare-up.”</p> - -<p>“Will you remember, Blake, that you are speaking of my brother’s -affairs? We are not in the habit of having flares-up here.”</p> - -<p>“I mean no offence,” said the other. “It’s a lie, then, that is flying -about the country.”</p> - -<p>“What is flying about the country? If it is about a flare-up you may be -sure it is a lie.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t stand upon the word,” said Blake. “I thought I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> might speak -frankly to you. Rumors are flying everywhere—that Mr. Trevanion is out -of one fit into another—dying of it—and that Madam—”</p> - -<p>“What of Madam?” said John Trevanion, firmly.</p> - -<p>“I have myself the greatest respect for Mrs. Trevanion,” said the -lawyer, making a sudden pause.</p> - -<p>“You would be a bold man if you expressed any other sentiment here; but -rumor has not the same reverential and perfectly just feeling, I -suppose. What has it ventured to say of my sister?”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion, with all his gravity, was very impulsive; and the sense -that her secret, whatever it was, had been betrayed, bound him at once -to her defence. He had probably never called her his sister before.</p> - -<p>“Of course it is all talk,” said Blake. “I dare say the story means -nothing; but knowing as I do so much about the state of affairs -generally—a lawyer, you know, like a doctor, and people used to say a -clergyman—”</p> - -<p>“Is bound to hold his tongue, is he not?” John Trevanion said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, as for that, a member of the family is not like a stranger. I took -it for granted you would naturally be on the injured husband’s side.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Blake,” said John, “you make assumptions which would be intolerable -even to a stranger, and to a brother and friend, understanding the whole -matter, I hope, a little better than you do, they are not less so, but -more. Look here; a lawyer has this advantage, that he is sometimes able -to calm the disordered fancy of a sick man, and put things in a better -light. Take care what you do. Don’t let the last act of his life be an -injustice if you can help it. Your father—if your father were here—”</p> - -<p>“Would inspire Mr. John Trevanion with more confidence,” said the other, -with a suppressed sneer. “It is unfortunate, but that is not your -brother’s opinion. He has preferred the younger man, as some do.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<p>“I hope you will justify his choice,” said John Trevanion, gravely. “It -is a great responsibility. To make serious changes in a moment of -passion is always dangerous—and, remember, my brother will in all -probability have no time to repent.”</p> - -<p>“The responsibility will be Mr. Trevanion’s, not mine,” said Blake. “You -should warn him, not me. His brother must have more constant access to -him than even his family lawyer, and is in a better position. I am here -to execute his wishes; that is all that I have to do with it.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion bowed without a word. It was true enough. The elder Blake -would perhaps have been of still less use in stemming the passionate -tide of the sick man’s fury, but at least he would have struggled -against it. They walked up to the house almost without exchanging -another word. In the hall they were met by Madam Trevanion, upon whom -the constant watching had begun to tell. Her eyes were red, and there -were deep lines under them. All the lines of her face were drawn and -haggard. She met the new-comer with an anxious welcome, as if he had -been a messenger of good and not of evil.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad you have come, Mr. Blake. Thank you for being so prompt. -My husband perhaps, after he has seen you, will be calmer and able to -rest. Will you come to his room at once?”</p> - -<p>If he had been about to secure her a fortune she could not have been -more anxious to introduce him. She came back to the hall after she had -led him to Mr. Trevanion’s room.</p> - -<p>“I am restless,” she said; “I cannot be still. Do you know, for the -first time he has sent me away. He will not have me with him. Before, -whatever he might have against me was forgotten when he needed me. God -grant that this interview he is so anxious for may compose him and put -things on their old footing.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was only her agitation and distress, but as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> spoke the -tears came and choked her voice. John Trevanion came up to her, and -laying his hands upon her shoulders gazed into her face.</p> - -<p>“Grace,” he said, “is it possible that you can be sincere?”</p> - -<p>“Sincere!” she cried, looking at him with a strange incomprehension. She -had no room in her mind for metaphysical questions, and she was -impatient of them at such a crisis of fate.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sincere. You know that man has come for some evil purpose. -Whatever they say or do together it will be to your hurt, you know; and -yet you hasten his coming, and tell him you are glad when he arrives—”</p> - -<p>“And you think it must be false? No, it is not false, John,” she said, -with a faint smile. “So long as he does it and gets it off his mind, -what is it to me? Do you know that he is perhaps dying? I have nursed -him and been the only one that he would have near him for years. Do you -think I care what happens after? But I cannot bear to be put out of my -own place now.”</p> - -<p>“Your own place! to bear all his caprices and abuse!”</p> - -<p>“My own place, by my husband’s bedside,” she said with tears. “When he -has done whatever he wants to do his mind will be relieved. And I can do -more for him than any one. He shortens his own life when he sends me -away.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> house was in a curious commotion up-stairs. The nursery apartments -were at the end of a passage, but on the same level with those of Mrs. -Trevanion, in which Jane, Madam’s attendant and anxious maid, was -watching—coming out now and then to listen, or standing within the -shelter of the half-closed door. Mrs. Trevanion’s room opened into the -gallery to which the great staircase led, and from which you could look -down into the hall. The nursery was at the end of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> long passage, and, -when the door was open, commanded also a view of the gallery. There many -an evening when there was fine company at Highcourt had the children -pressed to see the beautiful ladies coming out in their jewels and -finery, dressed for dinner. The spectacle now was not so imposing, but -Russell, seated near the door, watched it with concentrated interest. -She was waiting too to see what would happen, with excitement -indescribable and some terror and sense of guilt. Sometimes Jane would -do nothing more than open her mistress’s door, and wait within for any -sound or sight that might be possible. Sometimes she would step out with -a furtive, noiseless step upon the gallery, and cast a quick look round -and below into the hall, then return again noiselessly. Russell watched -all these evidences of an anxiety as intense as her own with a sense of -relief and encouragement. Jane was as eager as she was, watching over -her mistress. Why was she thus watching? If Madam had been blameless, -was it likely that any one would be on the alert like this? Russell -herself was very sure of her facts. She had collected them with the care -which hatred takes to verify its accusations; and yet cold doubts would -trouble her, and she was relieved to see her opponent, the devoted -adherent of the woman whose well-being was at stake, in a state of so -much perturbation and anxiety. It was another proof, more potent than -any of the rest. The passage which led to Russell’s domain was badly -lighted, and she could not be seen as she sat there at her post like a -spy. She watched with an intense passion which concentrated all her -thoughts. When she heard the faint little jar of the door she brightened -involuntarily. The figure of Jane—slim, dark, noiseless—standing out -upon the gallery was comfort to her very soul. The children were playing -near. Sophy, perched up at the table, was cutting out pictures from a -number of illustrated papers and pasting them into a book, an occupation -which absorbed her. The two younger children were on the floor, where -they went on with their play, babbling to each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> other, conscious of -nothing else. It had begun to rain, and they were kept indoors perforce. -A more peaceful scene could not be. The fire, surrounded by the high -nursery fender, burned warmly and brightly. In the background, at a -window which looked out upon the park, the nursery-maid—a still figure, -like a piece of still life but for the measured movement of her -hand—sat sewing. The little ones interchanged their eager little -volleys of talk. They were “pretending to be” some of the actors in the -bigger drama of life that went on over their heads. But their little -performance was only Comedy, and it was Tragedy incarnate, with hands -trembling too much to knit the little sock which she held, with dry lips -parted with excitement, eyes feverish and shining, and an impassioned -sense of power, of panic, and of guilt, that sat close to them in her -cap and apron at the open door.</p> - -<p>When Rosalind’s figure flitted across the vacant scene, which was like -the stage of a theatre to Russell, her first impulse was to start up and -secure this visitor from the still more important field of battle below, -so as to procure the last intelligence how things were going; and it was -with a deepened sense of hostility, despite, and excitement that she now -saw her approached by the rival watcher. Jane arrested the young lady on -her way to her room, and they had an anxious conversation, during which -first one and then both approached the railing of the gallery and looked -over. It was all that the woman could do to restrain herself. What were -they looking at? What was going on? It is seldom that any ordinary human -creature has the consciousness of having set such tremendous forces in -motion. It might involve ruin to her mistress, death to her master. The -children whom she loved might be orphaned by her hand. But she was not -conscious of anything deeper than a latent, and not painful, though -exciting, thrill of guilt, and she was very conscious of the exultation -of feeling herself an important party in all that was going on. What had -she done? Nothing but her duty. She had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> warned a man who was being -deceived; she had exposed a woman who had always kept so fair an -appearance, but whom she, more clear-sighted than any one, had suspected -from the first. Was she not right in every point, doing her duty to Mr. -Trevanion and the house that had sheltered her so long? Was not she -indeed the benefactor of the house, preserving it from shame and injury? -So she said to herself, justifying her own actions with an excitement -which betrayed a doubt; and in the meantime awaiting the result with -passionate eagerness, incapable of a thought that did not turn round -this centre— What was to happen? Was there an earthquake, a terrible -explosion, about to burst forth? The stillness was ominous and dreadful -to the watching woman who had put all these powers in motion. She feared -yet longed for the first sound of the coming outburst; and yet all the -while had a savage exultation in her heart in the thought of having been -able to bring the whole world about her to such a crisis of fate.</p> - -<p>Jane in the meantime had stopped Rosalind, who was breathless with her -run across the park. The woman was much agitated and trembling. “Miss -Rosalind,” she said, with pale lips, “is there something wrong? I see -Madam in the hall; she is not with master, and he so ill. Oh! what is -wrong—what is wrong?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, Jane; nothing, I hope. Papa is perhaps asleep, and there -is some one— Mr. Blake—come to see him. My mother is waiting till he is -gone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! that is perhaps why she is there,” said Jane, with relief; then she -caught the girl timidly by the arm. “You will forgive me, Miss Rosalind; -she has enemies—there are some who would leave nothing undone to harm -her.”</p> - -<p>“To harm mamma!” said Rosalind, holding her head high; “you forget -yourself, Jane. Who would harm her in this house?”</p> - -<p>Jane gave the girl a look which was full of gratitude, yet of miserable -apprehension. “You will always be true to her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> Miss Rosalind,” she -said; “and oh, you have reason, for she has been a good mother to you.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind looked at the woman somewhat sternly, for she was proud in her -way. “If I did not know how fond you are of mamma,” she said, “I should -be angry. Does any one ever talk so of mother and daughter? That is all -a matter of course; both that she is the best mother in the world, and -that I am part of herself.”</p> - -<p>Upon this Jane did what an Englishwoman is very slow to do. She got hold -of Rosalind’s hand, and made a struggle to kiss it, with tears. “Oh, -Miss Rosalind, God bless you! I’d rather hear that than have a fortune -left me,” she cried. “And my poor lady will want it all; she will want -it all!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be silly, Jane. My mother wants nothing but that we should have a -little sense. What can any one do against her, unless it is you and the -rest annoying her by foolish anxiety about nothing. Indeed, papa is very -ill, and there is reason enough to be anxious,” the girl added, after a -pause.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Madam Trevanion sat alone in the hall below. She -received Blake, when he arrived, as we have seen, and she had a brief -conversation with her brother-in-law, which agitated her a little. But -when he left her, himself much agitated and not knowing what to think, -she sat down again and waited, alone and unoccupied; a thing that -scarcely ever in her full life happened to her. She, too, felt the -stillness before the tempest. It repeated itself in her mind in a -strange, fatal calm, a sort of cessation of all emotion. She had said to -John Trevanion that she did not care what came after; and she did not; -yet the sense that something was being done which would seriously affect -her future life, even though she was not susceptible of much feeling on -the subject, made the moment impressive. Calm and strong, indeed, must -the nerves be of one who can wait outside the closed door of a room in -which her fate is being decided, without a thrill. But a sort of false -tranquillity—or was it perhaps the calmest of all moods, the stillness -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> despair?—came on her as she waited. There is a despair which is -passion, and raves; but there is a different kind of despair, not called -forth by any great practical danger, but by a sense of the -impossibilities of life, the powerlessness of human thought or action, -which is very still and says little. The Byronic desperation is very -different from that which comes into the heart of a woman when she -stands still amid the irreconcilable forces of existence and feels -herself helpless amid contending wills, circumstances, powers, which she -can neither harmonize nor overcome. The situation in which she stood was -impossible. She saw no way out of it. The sharp sting of her present -uselessness, and the sense that she had been for the first time turned -away from her husband’s bedside, had given a momentary poignancy to her -emotions which roused her, but as that died away she sat and looked her -position in the face with a calm that was appalling. This was what she -had come to at the end of seventeen years—that her position was -impossible. She did not know how to turn or what step to take. On either -side of her was a mind that did not comprehend and a heart that did not -feel for her. She could neither touch nor convince the beings upon whom -her very existence depended. Andromeda, waiting for the monster to -devour her, had at least the danger approaching but from one quarter, -and, on the other, always the possibility of a Perseus in shining armor -to cleave the skies. But Madam had on either side of her an insatiable -fate, and no help, she thought, on earth or in heaven. For there comes a -moment in the experience of all who have felt very deeply, when Heaven, -too, seems to fail. Praying long, with no visible reply, drains out the -heart. There seems nothing more left to say even to God, no new argument -to employ with him, who all the while knows better than he can be told. -And there she was, still, silent in her soul as well as with her lips, -waiting, with almost a sense of ease in the thought that there was -nothing more to be done, not even a prayer to be said, her heart, her -thoughts, her wishes, all standing arrested as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> before an impenetrable -wall which stopped all effort. And how still the house was! All the -doors closed, the sounds of the household lost in the distance of long -passages and shut doors and curtains; nothing to disturb the stillness -before the tempest should burst. She was not aware of the anxious looks -of her maid, now and then peering over the balustrade of the gallery -above, for Jane’s furtive footstep made no sound upon the thick carpet. -Through the glass door she saw the clear blue of the sky, radiant in the -wintry sunshine, but still, as wintry brightness is, without the -flickers of light and shadow. And thus the morning hours went on.</p> - -<p>A long time, it seemed a lifetime, passed before her repose was -disturbed. It had gradually got to be like an habitual state, and she -was startled to be called back from it. The heavy curtain was lifted, -and first Mr. Blake, then Dr. Beaton, came forth. The first looked -extremely grave and disturbed, as he came out with a case of papers -which he had brought with him in his hand. He looked at Mrs. Trevanion -with a curious, deprecating air, like that of a man who has injured -another unwillingly. They had never been friends, and Madam had shown -her sentiments very distinctly as to those overtures of admiration which -the young lawyer had taken upon himself to make to Rosalind. The -politeness he showed to her on ordinary occasions was the politeness of -hostility. But now he looked at her alarmed, as if he could not support -her glance, and would fain have avoided the sight of her altogether. Dr. -Beaton, on the other hand, came forward briskly.</p> - -<p>“I have just been called in to our patient,” he said, “and you are very -much wanted, Mrs. Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>“Does he want me?” she said.</p> - -<p>“I think so—certainly. You are necessary to him; I understand your -delicacy in being absent while Mr. Blake—”</p> - -<p>“Do not deceive yourself, doctor; it was not my delicacy.”</p> - -<p>“Come, please,” said the doctor, almost impatiently; “come at once.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<p>Blake stood looking after them till both disappeared behind the curtain, -then drew a long breath, as if relieved by her departure. “I wonder if -she has any suspicion,” he said to himself. Then he made a long pause -and walked about the hall, and considered the pictures with the eye of a -man who might have to look over the inventory of them for sale. Then he -added to himself, “What an old devil!” half aloud. Of whom it was that -he uttered this sentiment no one could tell, but it came from the bottom -of his heart.</p> - -<p>Madam did not leave the sick-chamber again that day. She did not appear -at luncheon, for which perhaps the rest were thankful, as she was -herself. How to look her in the face, with this mingled doubt of her and -respect for her, nobody knew. Rosalind alone was disappointed. The -doctor took everything into his own hands. He was now the master of the -situation, and ruled everybody. “She is the best woman I ever knew,” he -said, with fervor. “I would rather trust her with a case than any Sister -in the land. I said to her that I thought she would do better to stay. -Mr. Trevanion was very glad to get her back.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">As</span> so often happens when all is prepared and ready for the catastrophe, -the stroke of fate was averted. That night proved better than the last, -and then there passed two or three quiet days. It was even possible, the -doctor thought, that the alarm might be a false one, and the patient go -on, if tranquil and undisturbed, until, in the course of nature, another -crisis prepared itself or external commotion accelerated nature. He had -received his wife back after her few hours’ banishment with a sort of -chuckling satisfaction, and though even his reduced and enfeebled state -did not make him incapable of offence, the insulting remarks he -addressed to her were no more than his ordinary method. Madam said -nothing of them; she seemed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> strangely enough, glad to return to her -martyrdom. It was better, it appeared, than the sensation of being sent -away. She was with him, without rest or intermission, the whole day and -a great portion of the night. The two or three hours allowed her for -repose were in the middle of the night, and she never stirred abroad nor -tasted the fresh air through this period of confinement. The drives -which had been her daily refreshment were stopped, along with every -other possibility of freedom. In the meantime there appeared something -like a fresh development of confidence and dependence upon her, which -wrung the heart of the enemy in her stronghold, and made Russell think -her work had been all in vain. Mr. Trevanion could not, it was said, -bear his wife out of his sight.</p> - -<p>It is a mistake when a dying person thus keeps all his world waiting. -The sympathetic faculties are worn out. The household in general felt a -slight sensation of resentment towards the sick man who had cheated them -into so much interest. It was not as if he had been a man whom his -dependents loved, and he had defrauded them of that profound and serious -interest with which the last steps of any human creature—unless in a -hospital or other agglomeration of humanity, where individual -characteristics are abolished—are accompanied. The servants, who had -with a little awe attended the coming of death, were half disappointed, -half disgusted by the delay. Even John Trevanion, who had made up his -mind very seriously and somewhat against his own convictions to wait -“till all was over,” had a sensation of annoyance: he might go on for -weeks, perhaps for months, all the winter—“thank God!” they said, -mechanically; but John could not help thinking how inconvenient it would -be to come back—to hang on all the winter, never able to go anywhere. -It would have been so much more considerate to get it over at once, but -Reginald was never one who considered other people’s convenience. Dr. -Beaton, who had no desire to leave Highcourt, and who, besides, had a -doctor’s satisfaction in a successful fight with disease, took it much -more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> pleasantly. He rubbed his hands and expressed his hopes of -“pulling” his patient through, with much unnecessary cordiality. “Let us -but stave off all trouble till spring, and there is no saying what may -happen,” he said, jauntily. “The summer will be all in his favor, and -before next winter we may get him away.” The younger members of the -family took this for granted. Reginald, who had been sent for from -school, begged his mother another time to be sure there was some real -need for it before summoning a fellow home in the middle of the half; -and Rosalind entirely recovered her spirits. The cloud that had hung -over the house seemed about to melt away. Nobody was aware of the -agitating conferences which Jane held with her mistress in the few -moments when they saw each other; or the miserable anxiety which -contended in Madam’s mind with her evident and necessary duties. She had -buried her troubles too long in her own bosom to exhibit them now. And -thus the days passed slowly away; the patient had not yet been allowed -to leave his bed, and, indeed, was in a state of alarming feebleness, -but that was all.</p> - -<p>Rosalind was left very much to herself during these days. She had now no -longer any one to go out with. Sometimes, indeed, her uncle would -propose a walk, but that at the most occupied but a small part of the -day, and all her usual occupations had been suspended in the general -excitement. She took to wandering about the park, where she could stray -alone as much as pleased her, fearing no intrusion. A week or ten days -after the visit of Mr. Blake, she was walking near the lake which was -the pride of Highcourt. In summer the banks of this piece of water were -a mass of flowering shrubs, and on the little artificial island in the -middle was a little equally artificial cottage, the creation of -Rosalind’s grandmother, where still the children in summer would often -go to have tea. One or two boats lay at a little landing-place for the -purpose of transporting visitors, and it was one of the pleasures of the -neighborhood, when the family were absent, to visit the Bijou, as it was -called. At one end<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> of the little lake was a road leading from the -village, to which the public of the place had a right. It was perhaps -out of weariness with the monotony of her lonely walks that Rosalind -directed her steps that way on an afternoon when all was cold and clear, -an orange-red sunset preparing in the west, and indications of frost in -the air. The lake caught the reflection of the sunset blaze and was all -barred with crimson and gold, with the steely blue of its surface coming -in around and intensifying every tint. Rosalind walked slowly round the -margin of the water, and thought of the happy afternoons when the -children and their mother had been rowed across, she herself and Rex -taking the control of the boat. The water looked tempting, with its bars -of color, and the little red roof of the Bijou blazed in the slanting -light. She played with the boats at the landing-place, pushing one into -the water with a half fancy to push forth into the lake, until it had -got almost too far off to be pulled back again, and gave her some -trouble, standing on the edge of the tiny pier with an oar in her hand, -to bring it back to its little anchorage. She was standing thus, her -figure relieved against the still, shining surface of the water, when -she heard a footstep behind her, and thinking it the man who had charge -of the cottage and the boats, called to him without turning round, “Come -here, Dunmore; I have loosed this boat and I can’t get it back—”</p> - -<p>The footstep advanced with a certain hesitation. Then an unfamiliar -voice said, “I am not Dunmore—but if you will allow me to help you—”</p> - -<p>She started and turned round. It was the same stranger whom she had -already twice seen on the road. “Oh! pray don’t let me trouble you. -Dunmore will be here directly,” she said.</p> - -<p>This did not, however, prevent the young man from rendering the -necessary assistance. He got into one of the nearer boats, and -stretching out from the bow of it, secured the stray pinnace. It was not -a dangerous act, nor even one that gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> the passer-by much trouble, but -Rosalind, partly out of a sense that she had been ungracious, partly, -perhaps—who can tell—out of the utter monotony of all around her, -thanked him with eagerness. “I am sorry to give you trouble,” she said -again.</p> - -<p>“It is no trouble, it is a pleasure.” Was he going to be so sensible, so -judicious, as to go away after this? He seemed to intend so. He put on -his hat after bowing to her, and turned away, but then there seemed to -be an after-thought which struck him. He turned back again, took off his -hat again, and said: “I beg your pardon, but may I ask for Mr. -Trevanion? The village news is so uncertain.”</p> - -<p>“My father is still very ill,” said Rosalind, “but it is thought there -is now some hope.”</p> - -<p>“That is good news indeed,” the stranger said. Certainly he had a most -interesting face. It could not be possible that a man with such a -countenance was “not a gentleman,” that most damning of all sentences. -His face was refined and delicate; his eyes large, liquid, full of -meaning, which was increased by the air of weakness which made them -larger and brighter than eyes in ordinary circumstances. And certainly -it was kind of him to be glad.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, you told me before you knew my father,” Rosalind said.</p> - -<p>“I cannot claim to know Mr. Trevanion; but I do know a member of the -family very well, and I have heard of him all my life.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was no more afraid of a young man than of an old woman, and she -thought she had been unjust to this stranger, who, after all, -notwithstanding his rough dress, had nothing about him to find fault -with. She said, “Yes; perhaps my Uncle John? In any case I am much -obliged to you, both for helping me and for your interest in papa.”</p> - -<p>“May I sometimes ask how he is? The villagers are so vague.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, certainly,” said Rosalind; “they have a bulletin at the lodge, or -if you care to come so far as Highcourt, you will always have the last -report.”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind, I will not come to the house. But I know that you -often walk in the park. If I may ask you when we—chance to meet?”</p> - -<p>This suggestion startled Rosalind. It awoke in her again that vague -alarm—not, perhaps, a gentleman. But when she looked at the eyes which -were searching hers with so sensitive a perception of every shade of -expression, she became confused and did not know what to think. He was -so quickly sensible of every change that he saw he had taken a wrong -step. He ought to have gone further, and perceived what the wrong step -was, but she thought he was puzzled and did not discover this -instinctively, as a gentleman would have done. She withdrew a step or -two involuntarily. “Oh, no,” she said with gentle dignity, “I do not -always walk the same way; but you may be sure of seeing the bulletin at -the lodge.” And with this she made him a courtesy and walked away, not -hurrying, to show any alarm, but taking a path which was quite out of -the way of the public, and where he could not follow. Rosalind felt a -little thrill of agitation in her as she went home. Who could he be, and -what did he do here, and why did he throw himself in her way? If she had -been a girl of a vulgarly romantic imagination, she would no doubt have -jumped at the idea of a secret adoration which had brought him to the -poor little village for her sake, for the chance of a passing encounter. -But Rosalind was not of this turn of imagination, and that undefined -doubt which wavered in her mind did a great deal to damp the wings of -any such fancy. What he had said was almost equal to asking her to meet -him in the park. She blushed all over at the thought—at the curious -impossibility of it, the want of knowledge. It did not seem an insult to -her, but such an incomprehensible ignorance in him that she was ashamed -of it; that he should have been capable of such a mistake. Not a -gentleman!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> Oh, surely he could never, never— And yet the testimony of -those fine, refined features—the mouth so delicate and sensitive, the -eyes so eloquent—was of such a different kind. And was it Uncle John he -knew? But Uncle John had passed him on the road and had not known him. -It was very strange altogether. She could not banish the beautiful, -pleading eyes out of her mind. How they looked at her! They were almost -a child’s eyes in their uncertainty and wistfulness, reading her face to -see how far to go. And altogether he had the air of extreme youth, -almost as young as herself, which, of course, in a man is boyhood. For -what is a man of twenty? ten years, and more, younger and less -experienced than a woman of that sober age. There was a sort of yearning -of pity in her heart towards him, just tempered by that doubt. Poor boy! -how badly he must have been brought up—how sadly ignorant not to know -that a gentleman— And then she began to remember Lord Lytton’s novels, -some of which she had read. There would have been nothing out of place -in them had such a youth so addressed a lady. He was, indeed, not at all -unlike a young man in Lord Lytton. He interested her very much, and -filled her mind as she went lightly home. Who could he be, and why so -anxious about her father’s health? or was that merely a reason for -addressing her—a way, perhaps he thought, of securing her acquaintance, -making up some sort of private understanding between them. Had not -Rosalind heard somewhere that a boy was opt to select a much older woman -as the object of his first admiration? Perhaps that might furnish an -explanation for it, for he must be very young, not more than a boy.</p> - -<p>When she got home her first step into the house was enough to drive -every thought of this description out of her mind. She was aware of the -change before she could ask—before she saw even a servant of whom to -inquire. The hall, all the rooms, were vacant. She could find nobody, -until, coming back after an ineffectual search, she met Jane coming away -from the sick-room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> carrying various things that had been used there. -Jane shook her head in answer to Rosalind’s question. “Oh, very bad -again—worse than ever. No one can tell what has brought it on. Another -attack, worse than any he has had. I think, Miss Rosalind,” Jane said, -drawing close with a tremulous shrill whisper, “it was that dreadful -woman that had got in again the moment my poor lady’s back was turned.”</p> - -<p>“What dreadful woman?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Russell, Miss Rosalind. My poor lady came out of the room for five -minutes— I don’t think it was five minutes. She was faint with fatigue; -and all at once we heard a cry. Oh, it was not master, it was that -woman. There she was, lying at the room door in hysterics, or whatever -you call them. And the spasms came on again directly. I pushed her out -of my lady’s way; she may be lying there yet, for anything I know. This -time he will never get better, Miss Rosalind,” Jane said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not say so—do not say so,” the girl cried. He had not been a -kind father nor a generous master. But such was the awe of it, and the -quivering sympathy of human nature, that even the woman wept as Rosalind -threw herself upon her shoulder. The house was full of the atmosphere of -death.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Russell</span> meant no harm to her master. In the curious confusion which one -passionate feeling brings into an undisciplined mind, she had even -something that might be called affection for Mr. Trevanion, as the -victim of the woman she hated. Something that she called regard for him -was the justification in her own mind of her furious antipathy to his -wife. And after all her excitement and suspense, to be compelled to -witness what seemed to her the triumph of Madam, the quieting down of -all suspicions, and her return, as more than ever indispensable, to the -bedside of her husband, drove the woman almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> to madness. How she -lived through the week and executed her various duties, as in ordinary -times, she did not know. The children suffered more or less, but not so -much as might be supposed. For to Russell’s perverted perception the -children were hers more than their mother’s, and she loved them in her -way, while she hated Mrs. Trevanion. Indeed, the absorption of Madam in -the sick-room left them very much in Russell’s influence, and, on the -surface, more evidently attached to her than to the mother of whom they -saw so little. If they suffered from the excitement that disturbed her -temper, as well as other things, it was in a very modified degree, and -they were indulged and caressed by moments, as much as they were hustled -and scolded at others. The nursery-maids, indeed, found Russell -unbearable, and communicated to each other their intention to complain -as soon as Madam could be supposed able to listen to them; if not, to -give notice at once. But they did not tell for very much in the house, -and the nurse concealed successfully enough from all but them the -devouring excitement which was in her. It was the afternoon hour, when -nature is at its lowest, and when excitement and suspense are least -supportable, that Russell found her next opportunity. She had gone -down-stairs, seeking she knew not what—looking for something new—a -little relief to the strain of suspense, when she suddenly saw the door -of the sick-room open and Mrs. Trevanion come out. She did not stop to -ask herself what she was to gain by risking an outbreak of fury from her -master, and of blame and reproach from every side, by intruding upon the -invalid. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. She opened the -door without leaving herself time to think, and went in.</p> - -<p>Then terror seized her. Mr. Trevanion was propped up in his bed, a pair -of fiery, twinkling eyes, full of the suspicion and curiosity that were -natural to him, peering out of the skeleton head, which was ghastly with -illness and emaciation. Nothing escaped the fierce vitality of those -eyes. He saw the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> movement of the door, the sudden apparition of the -excited face, at first so eager and curious, then blanched with terror. -He was himself comparatively at ease, in a moment of vacancy in which -there was neither present suffering enough to occupy him, nor anything -else to amuse his restless soul. “Hallo!” he cried, as soon as he saw -her; “come in—come in. You have got something more to tell me? Faithful -woman—faithful to your master! Come in; there is just time before Madam -comes back to hear what you have to say.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the valet, who had taken Madam’s place, -“but the doctor’s orders is—”</p> - -<p>“What do I care for the doctor’s orders? Get out of the way and let -Russell in. Here, woman, you have got news for me. A faithful servant, -who won’t conceal from her master what he ought to know. Out, Jenkins, -and let the woman come in.”</p> - -<p>He raised himself up higher in his bed; the keen angles of his knees -seemed to rise to his chin. He waved impatiently his skeleton hands. The -valet made wild signs at the intruder. “Can’t you go away? You’ll kill -him!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. “Come in—come in!” shrieked the -skeleton in the bed, in all the excitement of opposition. Then it was -that Russell, terrified, helpless, distracted, gave that cry which -echoed through all the house, and brought Dr. Beaton rushing from one -side and Mrs. Trevanion from the other. The woman had fallen at the door -of the room in hysterics, as Jane said, a seizure for which all the -attendants, absorbed in a more immediate danger, felt the highest -contempt. She was pushed out of the way, to be succored by the maids, -who had been brought by the cry into the adjacent passage, in high -excitement to know what was going on. But Russell could not throw any -light upon what had happened even when she came to herself. She could -only sob and cry, with starts of nervous panic. She had done nothing, -and yet what had she done? She had not said a word to him, and yet— It -was soon understood throughout<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> all the house that Mr. Trevanion had -another of his attacks, and that Dr. Beaton did not think he could ever -rally again.</p> - -<p>The room where the patient lay was very large and open. It had once been -the billiard-room of the house, and had been prepared for him when it -was found no longer expedient that he should go up and down even the -easy, luxuriously carpeted stairs of Highcourt. There was one large -window filling almost one side of the room, without curtains or even -blind, and which was now thrown open to admit the air fully. The door, -too, was open, and the draught of fresh, cold, wintry air blowing -through made it more like a hillside than a room in a sheltered house. -Notwithstanding this, Mrs. Trevanion stood by the bed, waving a large -fan, to get more air into the panting and struggling lungs. On the other -side of the bed the doctor stood, with the bony wrist of the patient in -his warm, living grasp. It seemed to be Death in person with whom these -anxious ministrants were struggling, rather than a dying man. Other -figures flitted about in the background, Jane bringing, with noiseless -understanding, according to the signs the doctor made to her, the things -he wanted—now a spoonful of stimulant, now water to moisten his lips. -Dead silence reigned in the room; the wind blew through, fluttering a -bit of paper on the table; the slight beat of the fan kept a vibration -in the air. Into this terrible scene Rosalind stole trembling, and after -her her uncle; they shivered with the chill blast which swept over the -others unnoticed, and still more with the sight of the gasping and -struggle. Rosalind, unused to suffering, hid her face in her hands. She -could do nothing. Jane, who knew what was wanted, was of more use than -she. She stood timidly at the foot of the bed, now looking up for a -moment at what she could see of her dying father, now at the figure of -his wife against the light, never intermitting for a moment her -dreadful, monotonous exercise. Mr. Trevanion was seated almost upright -in the midst of his pillows, laboring in that last terrible struggle for -breath, for death, not for life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<p>He had cried out at first in broken gasps for “The woman—the woman! -She’s got something—to tell me. Something more—to tell me. I’ll hear -it— I’ll he-ar it— I’ll know—everything!” he now shrieked, waving his -skeleton arms to keep them away, and struggling to rise. But these -efforts soon gave way to the helplessness of nature. His cries soon sank -into a hoarse moaning, his struggles to an occasional wave with his arms -towards the door, an appeal with his eyes to the doctor, who stood over -him inexorable. Every agitating movement had dropped before Rosalind -came in into the one grand effort for breath. That was all that was left -him in this world to struggle for. A man of so many passions, who had -got everything he had set his heart on in life: a little breath now, -which the November breeze, the winnowing of the air by the great fan, -every aid that could be used, could not bring to his panting lungs. Who -can describe the moment when nurses and watchers, and children and -lovers stand thus awed and silent, seeing the struggle turn into a fight -for death—not against it: feeling their own hearts turn, and their -prayers, to that which hitherto they have been resisting with all that -love and skill and patience can do? Nature is strong at such a time. Few -remember that the central figure has been an unkind husband, a careless -father; they remember only that he is going away from them into darkness -unfathomable, which they can never penetrate till they follow; that he -is theirs, but soon will be theirs no more.</p> - -<p>Then there occurred a little pause; for the first moment Dr. Beaton, -with a lifted finger and eyes suddenly turned upon the others, was about -to say, “All is over,” when a faintly renewed throb of the dying pulse -under his finger contradicted him. There was a dead calm for a few -moments, and then a faint rally. The feverish, eager eyes, starting out -of their sockets, seemed to calm, and glance with something like a dim -perception at John Trevanion and Rosalind, who approached. Rosalind, -entirely overcome by emotion and the terrible excitement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> of witnessing -such an event, dropped down on her knees by the bedside, where with a -slight flickering of the eyelids her father’s look seemed to follow her. -But in the act that look was arrested by the form of his wife, standing -always in the same position, waving the fan, sending wafts of air to -him, the last and only thing he now wanted. His eyes steadied then with -a certain meaning in them—a last gleam which gradually strengthened. He -looked at her fixedly, with what in a person less exhausted would have -been a wave of the hand towards her. Then there was a faint movement of -the lips. “John!” was it perhaps? or “Look!” Then the words became more -audible. “She’s—good nurse—faithful— Air!—stands—hours—but—” Then -the look softened a little, the voice grew stronger; -“I’m—almost—sorry—” it said.</p> - -<p>For what—for what? In the intense stillness every feeble syllable was -heard. Only a minute or two more was left to make amends for the cruelty -of a life. The spectators held their breath. As for the wife, whose life -perhaps hung upon these syllables as much as his did, she never moved or -spoke, but went on fanning, fanning, supplying to him these last billows -of air for which he labored. Suddenly a change came over the dying face, -the eyes with all their old eagerness turned to the doctor, asking -pitifully—was it for help in the last miserable strain of nature, this -terrible effort to die?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion seemed turned into stone. She stood and fanned after all -need was over, solemnly winnowing the cold, penetrating air, which was -touched with the additional chill of night, in waves towards the still -lips which had done with that medium of life. To see her standing there, -as if she had fainted or become unconscious, yet stood at her post still -exercising that strange mechanical office, was the most terrible of all. -The doctor came round and took her by the arm, and took the fan out of -her hand.</p> - -<p>“There’s no more need for that,” he cried in a broken voice; “no more -need. Let us hope he is gone to fuller air than ours.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span></p> - -<p>She was so strained and stupefied that she scarcely seemed to understand -this. “Hush!” she said, pulling it from his hands, “I tell you it does -him good.” She had recovered the fan again and begun to put it in -motion, when her eyes suddenly opened wide and fixed upon the dead face. -She looked round upon them all with a great solemnity, yet surprise. “My -husband is dead!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Grace,” said John Trevanion, “come away. You have done everything up to -the last moment. Come, now, and rest for the sake of the living. He -needs you no more.”</p> - -<p>He was himself very much moved. That which had been so long looked for, -so often delayed, came now with all the force of a surprise. Rosalind, -in an agony of tears, with her face hidden in the coverlid; Madam -standing there, tearless, solemn, with alas, he feared, still worse -before her than anything she divined; the young fatherless children -outside, the boy at school, the troubles to be gone through, all rushed -upon John Trevanion as he stood there. In a moment he who had been the -object of all thought had abdicated or been dethroned, and even his -brother thought of him no more. “For the sake of the living,” he -repeated, taking his sister-in-law by the arm. The touch of her was like -death; she was cold, frozen where she stood—penetrated by the wintry -chill and by the passing of that chiller presence which had gone by -her—but she did not resist. She suffered him to lead her away. She sank -into a chair in the hall, as if she had no longer any power of her own. -There she sat for a little while unmoving, and then cried out suddenly, -“For the living!—for which of the living? It would be better for the -living if you would bury me with him, he and I in one grave.”</p> - -<p>Her voice was almost harsh in this sudden cry. What was it—a lie, or -the truth? That a woman who had been so outraged and tormented should -wish to be buried with her husband seemed to John Trevanion a thing -impossible; and yet there was no falsehood in her face. He did not know -what to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> think or say. After a moment he went away and left her alone -with her—what?—her grief, her widowhood, her mourning—or was it only -a physical frame that could bear no more, the failure of nature, -altogether exhausted and worn out?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“The</span> mother might have managed better, Rosie—why wasn’t I sent for? I’m -the eldest and the heir, and I ought to have been here. Poor old -papa—he would miss me, I know. He was fond of me because I was the -biggest. He used to tell me things, I ought to have been sent for. Why -didn’t she send for me, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“I have told you before, Rex. We did not know. When I went out in the -afternoon he was better and all going well; and when I came back— I had -only been in the park—he was dying. Oh, you should be rather glad you -were not there. He took no notice of any one, and death is terrible. I -never understood what it was—”</p> - -<p>Reginald was silent for a little. He was sufficiently awestricken even -now by the sensation of the closed shutters and darkened house. “That -may be,” he said, in a softened voice, “but though you did not know, she -would know, Rosie. Do you think she wanted me not to be there? Russell -says—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to me of that woman, Rex. She killed my father—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come, Rosie, don’t talk nonsense, you know. How could she kill him? -She wanted to tell him something that apparently he ought to have known. -It was <i>that</i> that killed him,” said the boy, with decision.</p> - -<p>They were sitting together in one of the dark rooms; Reginald in the -restless state of querulous and petulant unhappiness into which enforced -seclusion, darkness, and the cessation of all active occupation warp -natural sorrow in the mind of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> young creature full of life and -movement; Rosalind in the partially soothed exhaustion of strong but -simple natural feeling. When she spoke of her father the tears came; but -yet already this great event was over, and her mind was besieged, by -moments, with thoughts of the new life to come. There were many things -to think of. Would everything go on as before under the familiar roof, -or would there be some change? And as for herself, what was to be done -with her? Would they try to take her from the side of her mother and -send her away among strangers? Mrs. Trevanion had retired after her -husband’s death to take the rest she wanted so much. For twenty-four -hours no one had seen her, and Jane had not allowed even Rosalind to -disturb the perfect quiet. Since then she had appeared again, but very -silent and self-absorbed. She was not less affectionate to Rosalind, but -seemed further away from her, as if something great and terrible divided -them. When even the children were taken to their mother they were -frightened and chilled by the dark room and the cap which she had put on -over her beautiful hair, and were glad when the visit was over and they -could escape to their nursery, where there was light, and many things to -play with. Sometimes children are the most sympathetic of all living -creatures; but when it is not so, they can be the most hard-hearted. In -this case they were impatient of the quiet, and for a long time past had -been little accustomed to be with their mother. When she took the two -little ones into her arms, they resigned themselves with looks half of -fright at each other, but were very glad, after they had hugged her, to -slip down and steal away. Sophy, who was too old for that, paced about -and turned over everything. “Are those what are called widow’s caps, -mamma? Shall you always wear them all your life, like old Widow Harvey, -or will it only be just for a little while?” In this way Sophy made -herself a comfort to her mother. The poor lady would turn her face to -the wall and weep, when they hurried away, pleased to get free of her. -And when Reginald came home, he had, after the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> burst of childish -tears, taken something of the high tone of the head of the house, -resentful of not having been called in time, and disposed to resist the -authority of Uncle John, who was only a younger brother. Madam had not -got much comfort from her children, and between her and Rosalind there -was a distance which wrung the girl’s heart, but which she did not know -how to surmount.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you know,” Reginald said, “that there was something that Russell -had to tell him? She will not tell me what it was; but if it was her -duty to tell him, how could it be her fault?”</p> - -<p>“As soon as mamma is well enough to think of anything, Russell must go -away.”</p> - -<p>“You are so prejudiced, Rosalind. It does not matter to me; it is a long -time since I had anything to do with her,” said the boy, who was so -conscious of being the heir. “But for the sake of the little ones I -shall object to that.”</p> - -<p>“You!” cried Rosalind, with amazement.</p> - -<p>“You must remember,” said the boy, “that things are changed now. The -mother, of course, will have it all in her hands (I suppose) for a time. -But it is I who am the head. And when she knows that I object—”</p> - -<p>“Reginald,” his sister cried; “oh, how dare you speak so? What have you -to do with it?—a boy at school.”</p> - -<p>A flush came over his face. He was half ashamed of himself, yet uplifted -by his new honors. “I may be at school—and not—very old; but I am -Trevanion of Highcourt now. I am the head of the family, whatever Uncle -John may say.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind looked at her young brother for some time without saying -anything, with an air of surprise. She said at last with a sigh, “You -are very disappointing, Rex. I think most people are. One looks for -something so different. I thought you would be sorry for mamma and think -of her above everything, but it is of yourself you are thinking. -Trevanion of Highcourt! I thought people had the decency to wait at -least until<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span>— Papa is in the house still,” she added, with an overflow -of tears.</p> - -<p>At this Reginald, who was not without heart, felt a sudden constriction -in his throat, and his eyes filled too. “I didn’t mean,” he said, -faltering, “to forget papa.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Mamma, -after all, won’t be so very much cut up, Rosie. He—bullied her awfully. -I wouldn’t say a word, but he did, you know. And so I thought, perhaps, -she might get over it—easier—”</p> - -<p>To this argument what could Rosalind reply? It was not a moment to say -it, yet it was true. She was confused between the claims of veracity and -that most natural superstition of the heart which is wounded by any -censure of the dead. She cried a little; she could not make any reply. -Mrs. Trevanion did not show any sign of taking it easily. The occupation -of her life was gone. That which had filled all her time and thoughts -had been removed entirely from her. If love had survived in her through -all that selfishness and cruelty could do to destroy it, such miracles -have been known. At all events, the change was one to which it was hard -to adapt herself, and the difficulty, the pain, the disruption of all -her habits, even, perhaps, the unaccustomed thrill of freedom, had such -a confusing and painful effect upon her as produced all the appearances -of grief. This was what Rosalind felt, wondering within herself whether, -after all she had borne, her mother would in reality “get over it -easier,” as Reginald said—a suggestion which plunged her into fresh -fields of unaccustomed thought when Reginald left her to make a -half-clandestine visit to the stables; for neither grief nor decorum -could quench in the boy’s heart the natural need of something to do. -Rosalind longed to go and throw herself at her mother’s feet, and claim -her old place as closest counsellor and confidante. But then she paused, -feeling that there was a natural barrier between them. If it should -prove true that her father’s death was a relief to his oppressed and -insulted wife, that was a secret which never, never could be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> breathed -in Rosalind’s ear. It seemed to the girl, in the absoluteness of her -youth, as if this must always stand between them, a bar to their -intercourse, which once had no barrier, no subjects that might not be -freely discussed. When she came to think of it, she remembered that her -father never had been touched upon as a subject of discussion between -them; but that, indeed, was only natural. For Rosalind had known no -other phase of fatherhood, and had grown up to believe that this was the -natural development. When men were strong and well, no doubt they were -more genial; but sick and suffering, what so natural as that wives and -daughters, and more especially wives, should be subject to all their -caprices? These were the conditions under which life had appeared to her -from her earliest consciousness, and she had never learned to criticise -them. She had been indignant at times and taken violently Mrs. -Trevanion’s side; but with the principle of the life Rosalind had never -quarrelled. She had known nothing else. Now, however, in the light of -these revelations, and the penetration of ordinary light into the -conditions of her own existence, she had begun to understand better. But -the awakening had been very painful. Life itself had stopped short and -its thread was broken. She could not tell in what way it was to be -pieced together again.</p> - -<p>Nothing could be more profoundly serious than the aspect of Uncle John -as he went and came. It is not cheerful work at any time to make all the -dismal arrangements, to provide for the clearing away of a life with all -its remains, and make room for the new on the top of the old. But -something more than this was in John Trevanion’s face. He was one of the -executors of his brother’s will; he and old Mr. Blake, the lawyer, who -had come over to Highcourt, and held what seemed a very agitating -consultation in the library, from which the old lawyer came forth -“looking as if he had been crying,” Sophy had reported to her sister. -“Do gentlemen ever cry?” that inquisitive young person had added. Mr. -Blake would see none<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> of the family, would not take luncheon, or pause -for a moment after he had completed his business, but kept his dog-cart -standing at the door, and hurried off as soon as ever the conference was -over, which seemed to make John Trevanion’s countenance still more -solemn. As Reginald went out, Uncle John came into the room in which -Rosalind was sitting. There was about him, too, a little querulousness, -produced by the darkened windows and the atmosphere of the shut-up -house.</p> - -<p>“Where is that boy?” he said, with a little impatience. “Couldn’t you -keep him with you for once in a way, Rosalind? There is no keeping him -still or out of mischief. I did hope that you could have exercised a -little influence over him—at this moment at least.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I knew what to do, Uncle John. Unless I amuse him I cannot do -anything; and how am I to amuse him just now?”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Uncle John, in the causeless irritation of the moment, -“a woman must learn to do that whether it is possible or not. Better -that you should exert yourself a little than that he should drift among -the grooms, and amuse himself in that way. If this was a time to -philosophize, I might say that’s why women in general have such hard -lives, for we always expect the girls to keep the boys out of mischief, -without asking how they are to do it.” When he had said this, he came -and threw himself down wearily in a chair close to the little table at -which Rosalind was sitting. “Rosie,” he said, in a changed voice, “we -have got a terrible business before us. I don’t know how we are to get -out of it. My heart fails me when I think—”</p> - -<p>Here his voice stopped, and he threw himself forward upon the table, -leaning his elbow on it, and covering his face with his hand.</p> - -<p>“You mean— Wednesday, Uncle John?” She put out her hand and slid it into -his, which rested on the table, or rather placed it, small and white, -upon the brown, clinched hand, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> the veins standing out upon it, -with which he had almost struck the table. Wednesday was the day -appointed for the funeral, to which, as a matter of course, half the -county was coming. She pressed her uncle’s hand softly with hers. There -was a faint movement of surprise in her mind that he, so strong, so -capable of everything that had to be done, should feel it so.</p> - -<p>He gave a groan. “Of what comes after,” he said, “I can’t tell you what -a terrible thing we have to do. God help that poor woman! God forgive -her if she has done wrong, for she has a cruel punishment to bear.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma?” cried Rosalind, with blanched lips.</p> - -<p>He made no distinct reply, but sat there silent, with a sort of despair -in the pose of every limb. “God knows what we are all to do,” he said, -“for it will affect us all. You, poor child, you will have to judge for -yourself. I don’t mean to say or suggest anything. You will have to show -what mettle is in you, Rosalind; you as well as the rest.”</p> - -<p>“What is this terrible thing?” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, can’t you -tell me? You make me wretched; I fancy I don’t know what.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion raised himself from the table. His face was quite -colorless. “Nothing that you can fear will be so bad as the reality,” he -said. “I cannot tell you now. It would be wrong to say anything till she -knows; but I am as weak as a child, Rosie. I want your hand to help me; -poor little thing, there is not much strength in it. That hour with old -Blake this morning has been too much both for him and me.”</p> - -<p>“Is it something in the will?” cried Rosalind, almost in a whisper. He -gave a little nod of assent, and got up and began to pace about the -room, as if he had lost power to control himself.</p> - -<p>“Charley Blake will not show. He is ashamed of his share in it; but I -suppose he could do nothing. It has made him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> ill, the father says. -There’s something—in Dante, is it?—about men being possessed by an -evil spirit after their real soul is gone. I wonder if that is true. It -would almost be a sort of relief to believe—”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, you are not speaking of my father?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t ask any questions, Rosalind. Haven’t I told you I can’t answer -you? The fact is, I am distracted with one thing and another, all the -business coming upon me, and I can’t tell what I am saying. Where is -that boy?”</p> - -<p>“I think he has gone to the stables, Uncle John. It is hard upon him, -being always used to the open air. He doesn’t know what to do. There is -nothing to amuse him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, to be sure, it is necessary that his young lordship should be -amused,” cried John, with something like a snarl of disgust. “Can’t you -manage to keep him in the house at least, with your feminine influence -that we hear so much of? Better anywhere than among those grooms, -hearing tales, perhaps— Rosie, forgive me,” he cried, coming up to her -suddenly, stooping over her and kissing her, “if I snap and snarl even -at you, my dear; but I am altogether distracted, and don’t know what I -am saying or doing. Only, for God’s sake, dance or sing, or play cards, -or anything, it does not matter what you do, it will be a pious office; -only keep him in-doors, where he will hear no gossip; that would be the -last aggravation; or go and take him out for a walk, it will be better -for you both to get into the fresh air.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Thus</span> a whole week of darkness and depression passed away.</p> - -<p>Mr. Trevanion was a great personage in the county. It was fit that all -honor should be done him. All the greatest persons in the neighborhood -had to be convened to conduct him in due state to his other dwelling -among the marbles of the mausoleum<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> which his fathers had built. It had -been necessary to arrange a day that would suit everybody, so that -nothing should be subtracted from this concluding grandeur; and -accordingly Highcourt remained, so to speak, in its suit of sables, with -blinds drawn down and shutters closed, as if darkness had veiled this -part of the earth. And, indeed, as it was the end of November, the face -of the sky was dim with clouds, and heavy mists gathered over the trees, -adding a deeper gloom to the shut-up house within. Life seemed to be -congealed in the silent rooms, except when broken by such an outburst of -impassioned feeling as that which John Trevanion had betrayed to -Rosalind. Perhaps this relieved him a little, but it put a burden of -vague misery upon her which her youth was quite unequal to bear. She -awaited the funeral with feverish excitement, and a terror to which she -could give no form.</p> - -<p>The servants in a house are the only gainers on such an occasion: they -derive a kind of pleasure from such a crisis of family fate. Blinds are -not necessarily drawn down in the housekeeper’s room, and the servants’ -hall is exempt from those heavier decorums which add a gloom -above-stairs; and there is a great deal to talk about in the tragedy -that is past and in the new arrangements that are to come, while all the -details of a grand funeral give more gratification to the humbler -members of the family, whose hearts are little affected, than they can -be expected to do to those more immediately concerned. There was a stir -of sombre pleasure throughout the house in preparation for the great -ceremony which was being talked of over all the county: though -Dorrington and his subordinates bore countenances more solemn than it is -possible to portray, even that solemnity was part of the gloomy -festival, and the current of life below was quickened by the many comers -and goers whose office it was to provide everything that could show -“respect” to the dead. Undertakers are not cheerful persons to think of, -but they brought with them a great deal of commotion which was far from -disagreeable, much eating and drinking, and additional<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> activity -everywhere. New mourning liveries, dresses for the maids, a flutter of -newness and general acquisition lightened the bustle that was attendant -upon the greater event. Why should some score of people mourn because -one man of bad temper, seen perhaps once or twice a day by the majority, -by some never seen at all, had been removed from the midst of them? It -was not possible; and as everything that is out of the way is more or -less a pleasure to unembarrassed minds, there was a thrill of subdued -satisfaction, excitement, and general complacency, forming an unfit yet -not unnatural background to the gloom and anxiety above. The family -assembled at their sombre meals, where there was little conversation -kept up, and then dispersed to their rooms, to such occupations as they -could find, conversation seeming impossible. In any case a party at -table must either be cheerful—which could not be looked for—or be -silent, for such conversation as is natural while still the father lies -dead in the house is not to be maintained by a mixed company around a -common meal.</p> - -<p>The doctor, who, of course, was one of the party, did his best to -introduce a little variety into the monotonous meetings, but John -Trevanion’s sombre countenance at the foot of the table was enough to -have silenced any man, even had not the silence of Mrs. Trevanion and -the tendency of Rosalind to sudden tears been enough to keep him in -check. Dr. Beaton, however, was Reginald’s only comfort. They kept up a -running talk, which perhaps even to the others was grateful, as covering -the general gloom. Reginald had been much subdued by hearing that he was -to return to school as soon as the funeral was over. He had found very -little sympathy with his claims anywhere, and he was very glad to fall -back upon the doctor. Indeed, if Highcourt was to be so dull as this, -Rex could not but think school was far better. “Of course, I never -meant,” he said to his sister, “to give up school—a fellow can’t do -that. It looks as if he had been sent away. And now there’s those -tiresome examinations for everything, even the Guards.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<p>“We shall be very dull for a long time,” said Rosalind. “How could it be -possible otherwise? But you will cheer us up when you come home for the -holidays; and, oh, Rex, you must always stand by mamma!”</p> - -<p>“By mamma!” Rex said, with some surprise. “Why, she will be very well -off—better off than any of us.” He had not any chivalrous feeling about -his mother. Such a feeling we all think should spring up spontaneously -in a boy’s bosom, especially if he has seen his mother ill-used and -oppressed; but, as a matter of fact, this assumption is by no means to -be depended on. A boy is at least as likely to copy a father who rails -against women, and against the one woman in particular who is his wife, -as to follow a vague general rule, which he has never seen put in -practice, of respect and tender reverence for woman. Reginald had known -his mother as the doer of everything, the endurer of everything. He had -never heard that she had any weakness to be considered, and had never -contemplated the idea that she should be put upon a pedestal and -worshipped; and if he did not hit by insight of nature upon some happy -medium between the two, it was not, perhaps, his fault. In the meantime, -at all events, no sentiment on the subject inspired his boyish bosom.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion, as these days went on, resumed gradually her former -habits, so far as was possible in view of the fact that all her married -life had been devoted to her husband’s service, and that she had dropped -one by one every pursuit that separated her from him. The day before the -funeral she came into the little morning-room in which Rosalind was -sitting, and drew a chair to the fire. “I had almost forgotten the -existence of this room,” she said. “So many things have dropped away -from me. I forget what I used to do. What used I to do, Rosalind, -before—”</p> - -<p>She looked up with a pitiful smile. And, indeed, it seemed to both of -them as if they had not sat quietly together, undisturbed, for years.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span></p> - -<p>“You have always done—everything for everybody—as long as I can -remember,” said Rosalind, with tender enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “I don’t think it has come to much use. I have been -thinking over my life, over and over, these few days. It has not been -very successful, Rosalind. Something has always spoiled my best efforts, -I wonder if other people feel the same? Not you, my dear, you know -nothing about it; you must not answer with your protestations. Looking -back, I can see how it has always failed somehow. It is a curious thing -to stand still, so living as I am, and look back upon my life, and sum -it up as if it were past.”</p> - -<p>“It is because a chapter of it is past,” said Rosalind. “Oh, mamma, I do -not wonder! And you have stood at your post till the last moment; no -wonder you feel as if everything were over.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I stood at my post: but perhaps another kind of woman would have -soothed him when I irritated him. Your father—was not kind to me, -Rosalind—”</p> - -<p>The girl rose and put her arms round Mrs. Trevanion’s neck and kissed -her. “No, mother,” she said.</p> - -<p>“He was not kind. And yet, now that he has gone out of my life I feel as -if nothing were left. People will think me a hypocrite. They will say I -am glad to be free. But it is not so, Rosalind, remember: man and wife, -even when they wound each other every day, cannot be nothing to each -other. My occupation is gone; I feel like a wreck cast upon the shore.”</p> - -<p>“Mother! how can you say that when we are all here, your children, who -can do nothing without you?”</p> - -<p>“My children—which children?” she said, with a wildness in her eyes as -if she did not know what she was saying; and then she returned to her -metaphor, like one thinking aloud; “like a wreck—that perhaps a fierce, -high sea may seize again, a high tide, and drag out upon the waves once -more. I wonder if I could beat and buffet those waves again as I used to -do, and fight for my life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, how could that ever be?—there is no sea here.”</p> - -<p>“No, no sea—one gets figurative when one is in great trouble—what your -father used to call theatrical, Rosalind. He said very sharp things—oh, -things that cut like a knife. But I was not without fault any more than -he; there is one matter in which I have not kept faith with him. I -should like to tell you, to see what you think. I did not quite keep -faith with him. I made him a promise, and— I did not keep it. He had -some reason, though he did not know it, in all the angry things he -said.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind did not know what to reply; her heart beat high with -expectation. She took her stepmother’s hand between hers, and waited, -her very ears tingling, for the next word.</p> - -<p>“I have had no success in that,” Mrs. Trevanion said, in the same dreary -way, “in that no more than the rest. I have not done well with anything; -except,” she said, looking up with a faint smile and brightening of her -countenance, “you, Rosalind, my own dear, who are none of mine.”</p> - -<p>“I am all of yours, mother,” cried the girl; “don’t disown me, for I -shall always claim you—always! You are all the mother I have ever -known.”</p> - -<p>Then they held each other close for a moment, clinging one to the other. -Could grief have appeared more natural? The wife and daughter, in their -deep mourning, comforting each other, taking a little courage from their -union—yet how many strange, unknown elements were involved. But Mrs. -Trevanion said no more of the confidence she had seemed on the point of -giving. She rose shortly after and went away, saying she was restless -and could not do anything, or even stay still in one place. “I walk -about my room and frighten Jane, but that is all I can do.”</p> - -<p>“Stay here, mamma, with me, and walk about, or do what you please. I -understand you better than Jane.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion shook her head; but whether it was to contradict that -last assertion or merely because she could not remain, it was impossible -to say. “To-morrow,” she said, “will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> be the end, and, perhaps, the -beginning. I feel as if all would be over to-morrow. After that, -Rosalind—”</p> - -<p>She went away with the words on her lips. “After to-morrow.” And to -Rosalind, too, it seemed as if her powers of endurance were nearly -ended, and to-morrow would fill up the sum. But then, what was that -further mysterious trouble which Uncle John feared?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion appeared again to dinner, which was a very brief meal, -but retired immediately; and the house was full of preparation for -to-morrow—every one having, or seeming to have, something to do. -Rosalind was left alone. She could not go and sit in the great, vacant -drawing-room, all dimly lighted, and looking as if some party of the -dead might be gathered about the vacant hearth; or in the hall, where -now and then some one of the busy, nameless train of to-morrow’s -ceremony would steal past. And it was too early to go to bed. She -wrapped herself in a great shawl, and, opening the glass door, stole out -into the night. The sweeping of the chill night air, the rustle of the -trees, the stars twinkling overhead, gave more companionship than the -silence and gloom within. She stood outside on the broad steps, leaning -against one of the pillars, till she got chilled through and through, -and began to think, with a kind of pleasure, of the glow of the fire.</p> - -<p>But as she turned to go in a great and terrible shock awaited her. She -had just come away from the pillar, which altogether obliterated her -slight, dark figure in its shadow and gave her a sort of invisibility, -when the glass door opened at a touch, and some one else came out. They -met face to face in the darkness. Rosalind uttered a stifled cry; the -other only by a pant of quickened breathing acknowledged the alarm. She -was gliding past noiselessly, when Rosalind, with sudden courage, caught -her by the cloak in which she was wrapped from head to foot. “Oh, not -to-night, oh, not to-night!” she said, with a voice of anguish; “for -God’s sake, mother, mother, not to-night!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span></p> - -<p>There was a pause, and no reply but the quick breathing, as if the -passer-by had some hope of concealing herself. But then Madam spoke, in -a low, hurried tone—“I must go; I must! but not for any pleasure of -mine!”</p> - -<p>Rosalind clung to her cloak with a kind of desperation. “Another time,” -she said, “but not, oh, not to-night!”</p> - -<p>“Let me go. God bless my dear! I cannot help it. I do only what I must. -Rosalind, let me go,” she said.</p> - -<p>And next moment the dark figure glided swiftly, mysteriously, among the -bushes towards the park. Rosalind came in with despair in her heart. It -seemed to her that nothing more was left to expect, or hope for. Her -mother, the mistress of this sad house, the wife of the dead who still -lay there awaiting his burial. At no other moment perhaps would the -discovery have come upon her with such a pang; and yet at any moment -what could it be but misery? Jane was watching furtively on the stairs -to see that her mistress’s exit had been unnoticed. She was in the -secret, the confidante, the— But Rosalind’s young soul knew no words; -her heart seemed to die within her. She could do or hope no more.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">All</span> was dark; the stars twinkling ineffectually in the sky, so far off, -like spectators merely, or distant sentinels, not helpers; the trees in -all their winter nakedness rustling overhead, interrupting the vision of -these watchers; the grass soaked with rain and the heavy breath of -winter, slipping below the hurrying feet. There was no sound, but only a -sense of movement in the night as she passed. The most eager gaze could -scarcely have made out what it was—a shadow, the flitting of a cloud, a -thrill of motion among the dark shrubs and bushes, as if a faint breeze -had got up suddenly and was blowing by. At that hour there was very -little chance of meeting anybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> in these damp and melancholy glades, -but the passenger avoided all open spaces until she had got to some -distance from the house. Even then, as she hurried across, her muffled -figure was quite unrecognizable. It was enough to raise a popular belief -that the park was haunted, but no more. She went on till she came to a -thick copse about half-way between the house and the village. Then -another figure made a step out of the thick cover to receive her, and -the two together withdrew entirely into its shade.</p> - -<p>What was said there, what passed, no one, even though skirting the copse -closely, could have told. The whisperers, hidden in its shade, were not -without an alarm from time to time; for the path to the village was not -far off, and sometimes a messenger from the house would pass at a -distance, whistling to keep his courage up, or talking loudly if there -were two, for the place was supposed to be ghostly. On this occasion the -faint movement among the bare branches would stop, and all be as still -as death. Then a faint thrill of sound, of human breathing, returned. -The conversation was rapid. “At last!” the other said; “do you know I -have waited here for hours these last nights?”</p> - -<p>“You knew it was impossible. How could I leave the house in such -circumstances? Even now I have outraged decency by coming. I have gone -against nature—”</p> - -<p>“Not for the first time,” was the answer, with a faint laugh.</p> - -<p>“If so, you should be the last to reproach me, for it was for you.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, for me! that is one way of putting it. Like all those spurious -sacrifices, if one examined a little deeper. You have had the best of -it, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>“All this,” she said, with a tone of despair, “has been said so often -before. It was not for this you insisted on my coming. What is it? Tell -me quickly, and let me go before I am found out. Found out! I am found -out already. I dare not ask myself what they think.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<p>“Whatever they think you may be sure it is not the truth. Nobody could -guess at the truth. It is too unnatural, that I should be lurking here -in wretchedness, and you—”</p> - -<p>“But you are comfortable,” she said quickly. “Jane told me—”</p> - -<p>“Comfortable according to Jane’s ideas, which are different from mine. -What I want is to know what you are going to do; what is to become of -me? Will you do me justice now, at last?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edmund, what justice have you made possible? What can I do but -implore you to go? Are not you in danger every day?”</p> - -<p>“Less here than anywhere; though I understand there have been inquiries -made; the constable in the village shows a degree of interest—”</p> - -<p>“Edmund,” she cried, seizing him by the arm, “for God’s sake, go!”</p> - -<p>“And not bring shame upon you, Madam? Why should I mind? If I have gone -wrong, whose fault is it? You must take that responsibility one time or -other. And now that you are free—”</p> - -<p>“I cannot defy the law,” she said, with a miserable moan. “I can’t -deliver you from what you have done. God knows, though it had been to -choose between you and everything else, I would have done you justice, -as you say, as soon as it was possible. But to what use now? It would -only direct attention to you—bring the—” She shuddered, and said no -more.</p> - -<p>“The police, you mean,” he replied, with a careless laugh. “And no great -harm either, except to you; for of course all my antecedents would be -published. But there are such things as disguises, and I am clever at a -make-up. You might receive me, and no one would be the wiser. The cost -of a new outfit, a new name—you might choose me a nice one. Of all -places in the world, a gentleman’s house in the country is the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> -where they would look for me. And then if there was any danger you could -swear I was—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edmund, Edmund, spare me! I cannot do this—to live in a deception -under my children’s eyes.”</p> - -<p>“Your children’s eyes!” he said, and laughed. The keen derision of his -tone went to her very heart.</p> - -<p>“I am used to hear everything said to me that can be said to a woman,” -she said quickly, “and if there was anything wanting you make it up. I -have had full measure, heaped up and running over. But there is no time -for argument now. All that might have been possible in other -circumstances; now there is no safety for you but in getting away. You -know this, surely, as well as I do. The anxiety you have kept me in it -is impossible to tell. I have been calmer since he is gone: it matters -less. But for your own sake—”</p> - -<p>The other voice said, with a change of tone, “I am lost anyhow. I shall -do nothing for my own sake—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edmund, Edmund, do not break my heart—at your age! If you will -only set your mind to better ways, everything can be put right again. As -soon as I know you are safe I will take it all in hand. I have not been -able hitherto, and now I am afraid to direct observation upon you. But -only go away; let me know you are safe: and you have my promise I will -pay anything, whatever they ask.”</p> - -<p>“Misprision of felony! They won’t do that; they know better. If there is -any paying,” he said, with his careless laugh, “it had much better be to -me.”</p> - -<p>“You shall be provided,” she said breathlessly, “if you will only think -of your own safety and go away.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure, then, of having come into your fortune? Has the old -fellow shown so much confidence in you? All the better for me. Your -generosity in that way will always be fully appreciated. But I would not -trouble about Liverpool; they’re used to such losses. It does them no -harm, only makes up for the salaries they ought to pay their clerks, and -don’t.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t speak so lightly, Edmund. You cannot feel it. To make up to those -you have—injured—”</p> - -<p>“Robbed, if you like, but not injured. That’s quite another matter. I -don’t care a straw for this part of the business. But money,” he said, -“money is always welcome here.”</p> - -<p>A sigh which was almost a moan forced itself from her breast. “You shall -have what you want,” she said. “But, Edmund, for God’s sake, if you care -either for yourself or me, go away!”</p> - -<p>“You would do a great deal better to introduce me here. It would be -safer than Spain. And leave it to me to make my way. A good name—you -can take one out of the first novel that turns up—and a few good suits -of clothes. I might be a long-lost relative come to console you in your -distress. That would suit me admirably. I much prefer it to going away. -You should see how well I would fill the post of comforter—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” she cried; “don’t!” holding out her hands in an appeal for -mercy.</p> - -<p>“Why,” he said, “it is far the most feasible way, and the safest, if you -would but think. Who would look for an absconded clerk at Highcourt, in -the midst of family mourning and all the rest of it? And I have views of -my own— Come, think it over. In former times I allow it would have been -impossible, but now you are free.”</p> - -<p>“I will not,” she said, suddenly raising her head. “I have done much, -but there are some things that are too much. Understand me, I will not. -In no conceivable circumstances, whatever may happen. Rather will I -leave you to your fate.”</p> - -<p>“What!” he said, “and bring shame and ruin on yourself?”</p> - -<p>“I do not care. I am desperate. Much, much would I do to make up for my -neglect of you, if you can call it neglect; but not this. Listen! I will -not do it. It is not to be mentioned again. I will make any sacrifice, -except of truth—except of truth!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span></p> - -<p>“Of truth!” he said, with a sneer; but then was silent, evidently -convinced by her tone. He added, after a time, “It is all your fault. -What was to be expected? I have never had a chance. It is just that you -should bear the brunt, for it is your fault.”</p> - -<p>“I acknowledge it,” she said; “I have failed in everything; and whatever -I can do to atone I will do. Edmund, oh, listen! Go away. You are not -safe here. You risk everything, even my power to help you. You must go, -you must go,” she added, seizing him firmly by the arm in her vehemence; -“there is no alternative. You shall have money, but go, go! Promise me -that you will go.”</p> - -<p>“If you use force—” he said, freeing himself roughly from her grasp.</p> - -<p>“Force! what force have I against you? It is you who force me to come -here and risk everything. If I am discovered, God help me! on the eve of -my husband’s funeral, how am I to have the means of doing anything for -you? You will understand that. You shall have the money; but promise me -to go.”</p> - -<p>“You are very vehement,” he said. Then, after another pause, “That is -strong, I allow. Bring me the money to-morrow night, and we shall see.”</p> - -<p>“I will send Jane.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want Jane. Bring it yourself, or there is not another word to -be said.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion got back, as she thought, unseen to the house. There was -nobody in the hall when she opened noiselessly the glass door, and flung -down the cloak she had worn among the wraps that were always there. She -went up-stairs with her usual stately step; but when she had safely -reached the shelter of her own room, she fell into the arms of the -anxious Jane, who had been waiting in miserable suspense, fearing -discovery in every sound. She did not faint. Nerves strong and highly -braced to all conclusions, and a brain yet more vigorous, still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> kept -her vitality unimpaired, and no merciful cloud came over her mind to -soften what she had to bear—there are some to whom unconsciousness is a -thing never accorded, scarcely even in sleep. But for a moment she lay -upon the shoulder of her faithful servant, getting some strength from -the contact of heart with heart. Jane knew everything; she required no -explanation. She held her mistress close, supporting her in arms that -had never failed her, giving the strength of two to the one who was in -deadly peril. After a time Mrs. Trevanion roused herself. She sat down -shivering in the chair which Jane placed for her before the fire. Warmth -has a soothing effect upon misery. There was a sort of restoration in -it, and possibility of calm. She told all that had passed to the -faithful woman who had stood by her in all the passages of her life—her -confidante, her go-between: other and worse names, if worse can be, had -been ere now expended upon Jane.</p> - -<p>“Once more,” Madam said, with a long sigh, “once more; and then it is to -be over, or so he says, at least. On the night of my husband’s funeral -day; on the night before— What could any one think of me, if it were -known? And how can I tell that it is not known?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear Madam, let us hope for the best,” said Jane. “Besides, who has -any right to find fault now? Whatever you choose to do, you have a right -to do it. The only one that had any right to complain—”</p> - -<p>“And the only one,” said Mrs. Trevanion, with sudden energy, “who had no -right to complain.” Then she sank back again into her chair. “I care -nothing for other people,” she said; “it is myself. I feel the misery of -it in myself. This night, of all others, to expose myself—and -to-morrow. I think my punishment is more than any woman should have to -bear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam, do not think of it as a punishment.”</p> - -<p>“As what, then—a duty? But one implies the other. God help us! If I -could but hope that after this all would be over,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> at least for the -time. I have always been afraid of to-morrow; I cannot tell why. Not -because of the grave and the ceremony; but with a kind of dread as if -there were something in it unforeseen, something new. Perhaps it is this -last meeting which has been weighing upon me—this last meeting, which -will be a parting, too, perhaps forever—”</p> - -<p>She paused for a moment, and then burst forth into tears. “I ought to be -thankful. That is the only thing to be desired. But when I think of all -that might have been, and of what is—of my life all gone between the -one who has been my tyrant, and the other—the other against whom I have -sinned. And that one has died in anger, and the other—oh, the other!”</p> - -<p>It was to Jane’s faithful bosom that she turned again to stifle the sobs -which would not be restrained. Jane stood supporting her, weeping -silently, patting with pathetic helplessness her mistress’s shoulder. -“Oh, Madam,” she said, “who can tell? his heart may be touched at the -last.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Next</span> day there was a great concourse of people at Highcourt, disturbing -the echoes which had lain so silent during that week of gloom. Carriages -with the finest blazons, quartered and coronetted; men of the greatest -importance, peers, and those commoners who hold their heads higher than -any recent peers—M.P.’s; the lord-lieutenant and his deputy, everything -that was noted and eminent in those parts. The procession was endless, -sweeping through the park towards the fine old thirteenth-century church -which made the village notable, and in which the Trevanion chantry, -though a century later in date, was the finest part; though the dark -opening in the vault, canopied over with fine sculptured work, and all -that pious art could do to make the last resting-place beautiful, opened -black as any common grave for the passage of the departed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> There was an -unusual band of clergy gathered in their white robes to do honor to the -man who had given half of them their livings, and all the villagers, and -various visitors from the neighboring town, shopkeepers who had rejoiced -in his patronage, and small gentry to whom Madam had given brevet rank -by occasional notice. Before the procession approached, a little group -of ladies, in crape from head to foot and closely veiled, were led in by -the curate reverently through a side door. A murmur ran through the -gathering crowd that it was Madam herself who walked first, with her -head bowed, not seeing or desiring the curate’s anxiously offered arm. -The village had heard a rumor of trouble at the great house, and -something about Madam, which had made the elders shake their heads, and -remind each other that she was a foreigner and not of these parts, which -accounted for anything that might be wrong; while the strangers, who had -also heard that there was a something, craned their necks to see her -through the old ironwork of the chancel-screen, behind which the ladies -were introduced. Many people paused in the midst of the service, and -dropped their prayer-books to gaze again, and wonder what she was -thinking now, if she had indeed, as people said, been guilty. How must -she feel when she heard the deep tones of the priest, and the organ -pealing out its Amens. Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. Had he -forgiven her before he died? Was she broken down with remorse and shame, -or was she rejoicing in her heart, behind her crape veil, in her -freedom? It must not be supposed, because of this general curiosity, -that Madam Trevanion had lost her place in the world, or would not have -the cards of the county showered upon her, with inquiries after her -health from all quarters; but only that there was “a something” which -gave piquancy, such as does not usually belong to such a melancholy -ceremonial, to the great function of the day. The most of the audience, -in fact, sympathized entirely with Madam, and made remarks as to the -character of the man so imposingly ushered into the realm of the dead,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> -which did not fit in well with the funeral service. There were many who -scoffed at the hymn which was sung by the choirs of the adjacent -parishes, all in the late Mr. Trevanion’s gift, and which was very, -perhaps unduly, favorable to the “dear saint” thus tenderly dismissed. -He had not been a dear saint; perhaps, in such a case, the well-known -deprecation of <i>trop de zèle</i> is specially appropriate. It made the -scoffer blaspheme to hear so many beautiful qualities attributed to Mr. -Trevanion. But perhaps it is best to err on the side of kindness. It -was, at all events, a grand funeral. No man could have desired more.</p> - -<p>The third lady who accompanied Mrs. Trevanion and her daughter was the -Aunt Sophy to whom there had been some question of sending Rosalind. She -was the only surviving sister of Mr. Trevanion, Mrs. Lennox, a wealthy -widow, without any children, to whom the Highcourt family were -especially dear. She was the softest and most good-natured person who -had ever borne the name of Trevanion. It was supposed to be from her -mother, whom the Trevanions in general had worried into her grave at a -very early age, that Aunt Sophy got a character so unlike the rest of -the family. But worrying had not been successful in the daughter’s case; -or perhaps it was her early escape by her marriage that saved her. She -was so apt to agree with the last person who spoke, that her opinion was -not prized as it might have been by her connections generally; but -everybody was confident in her kindness. She had arrived only the -morning of the funeral, having come from the sickbed of a friend whom -she was nursing, and to whom she considered it very necessary that she -should get back; but it was quite possible that, being persuaded her -sister-in-law or Rosalind had more need of her, she might remain at -Highcourt, notwithstanding that it was so indispensable that she should -leave that afternoon, for the rest of the year.</p> - -<p>The shutters had been all opened, the blinds raised, the windows let in -the light, the great doors stood wide when they came back. The house was -no longer the house of the dead,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> but the house of the living. In Mr. -Trevanion’s room, that chamber of state, the curtains were all pulled -down already, the furniture turned topsy-turvy, the housemaids in -possession. In proportion as the solemnity of the former mood had been, -so was the anxiety now to clear away everything that belonged to death. -The children, in their black frocks, came to meet their mother, half -reluctant, half eager. The incident of papa’s death was worn out to them -long ago, and they were anxious to be released, and to see something -new. Here Aunt Sophy was of the greatest assistance. She cried over -them, and smiled, and admired their new dresses, and cried again, and -bade them be good and not spoil their clothes, and be a comfort to their -dear mamma. The ladies kept together in the little morning-room till -everybody was gone. It was very quiet there, out of the bustle; and they -had been told that there was no need for their presence in the library -where the gentlemen were, John Trevanion with the Messrs. Blake. There -was no need, indeed, for any formal reading of the will. There could be -little uncertainty about a man’s will whose estates were entailed, and -who had a young family to provide for. Nobody had any doubt that he -would deal justly with his children, and the will was quite safe in the -hands of the executors. Refreshments were taken to them in the library, -and the ladies shared the children’s simple dinner. It was all very -serious, very quiet, but there could be no doubt that the weight and -oppression were partially withdrawn.</p> - -<p>The short afternoon had begun to darken, and Aunt Sophy had already -asked if it were not nearly time for tea, when Dorrington, the butler, -knocked at the door, and with a very solemn countenance delivered “Mr. -John Trevanion’s compliments, and would Madam be so good as step into -the library for a few minutes?”</p> - -<p>The few minutes were Dorrington’s addition. The look of the gentlemen -seated at the table close together, like criminals awaiting execution, -and fearing that every moment would bring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> the headsman, had alarmed -Dorrington. He was favorable to his mistress on the whole; and he -thought this summons meant something. So unconsciously he softened his -message. A few minutes had a reassuring sound. They all looked up at him -as the message was given.</p> - -<p>“They will want to consult you about something,” said Aunt Sophy; “you -have managed everything for so long. He said only a few minutes. Make -haste, dear, and we will wait for you for tea.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I go with you, mamma?” said Rosalind, rising and following to the -door.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion hesitated for a moment. “Why should I be so foolish?” she -said, with a faint smile. “I would say yes, come; but that it is too -silly.”</p> - -<p>“I will come, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“No; it is absolute folly. As if I were a novice! Make your aunt -comfortable, dear, and don’t let her wait for me.” She was going away -when something in Rosalind’s face attracted her notice. The girl’s eyes -were intent upon her with a pity and terror in them that was -indescribable. Mrs. Trevanion made a step back again and kissed her. -“You must not be frightened, Rosalind. There can be nothing bad enough -for that; but don’t let your aunt wait,” she said; and closing the door -quickly behind her, she left the peaceful protection of the women with -whom she was safe, and went to meet her fate.</p> - -<p>The library was naturally a dark room, heavy with books, with solemn -curtains and sad-colored furniture. The three large windows were like -shaded lines of vertical light in the breadth of the gloom. On the table -some candles had been lighted, and flared with a sort of wild waving -when the door was opened. Lighted up by them, against the dark -background, were the pale faces of John Trevanion and old Mr. Blake. -Both had a look of agitation, and even alarm, as if they were afraid of -her. Behind them, only half visible, was the doctor, leaning against a -corner of the mantelpiece, with his face hidden by his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> hand. John -Trevanion rose without a word, and placed a chair for his sister-in-law -close to where they sat. He drew nearer to his colleague when he sat -down again, as if for protection, which, however, Mr. Blake, a most -respectable, unheroic person, with his countenance like ashes, and -looking as if he had seen a ghost, was very little qualified to give.</p> - -<p>“My dear Grace,” said John, clearing his voice, which trembled, “we have -taken the liberty to ask you to come here, instead of going to you.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to come if you want me, John,” she said, simply, with a -frankness and ease which confused them more and more.</p> - -<p>“Because,” he went on, clearing his throat again, endeavoring to control -his voice, “because we have something—very painful to say.”</p> - -<p>“Very painful; more painful than anything I ever had to do with in all -my life,” Mr. Blake added, in a husky voice.</p> - -<p>She looked from one to another, questioning their faces, though neither -of them would meet her eyes. The bitterness of death had passed from -Mrs. Trevanion’s mind. The presentiment that had hung so heavily about -her had blown away like a cloud. Sitting by the fire in the innocent -company of Sophy, with Rosalind by her, the darkness had seemed to roll -together and pass away. But when she looked from one of these men to the -other, it came back and enveloped her like a shroud. She said “Yes?” -quickly, her breath failing, and looked at them, who could not meet her -eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is so,” said John. “We must not mince our words. Whatever may have -passed between you two, whatever he may have heard or found out, we can -say nothing less than that it is most unjust and cruel.”</p> - -<p>“Savage, barbarous! I should never have thought it, I should have -refused to do it,” his colleague cried, in his high-pitched voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span></p> - -<p>“But we have no alternative. We must carry his will out, and we are -bound to let you know without delay.”</p> - -<p>“This delay is already too much,” she said hurriedly. “Is it something -in my husband’s will? Why try to frighten me? Tell me at once.”</p> - -<p>“God knows we are not trying to frighten you. Nothing so terrible could -occur to your mind, or any one’s, Grace,” said John Trevanion, with a -nervous quivering of his voice. “The executioner used to ask pardon of -those he was about to— I think I am going to give you your sentence of -death.”</p> - -<p>“Then I give you—my pardon—freely. What is it? Do not torture me any -longer,” she said.</p> - -<p>He thrust away his chair from the table, and covered his face with his -hands. “Tell her, Blake; I cannot,” he cried.</p> - -<p>Then there ensued a silence like death; no one seemed to breathe; when -suddenly the high-pitched, shrill voice of the old lawyer came out like -something visible, mingled with the flaring of the candles and the -darkness all around.</p> - -<p>“I will spare you the legal language,” said Mr. Blake. “It is this. The -children are all provided for, as is natural and fit, but with this -proviso—that their mother shall be at once and entirely separated from -them. If Mrs. Trevanion remains with them, or takes any one of them to -be with her, they are totally disinherited, and their money is left to -various hospitals and charities. Either Mrs. Trevanion must leave them -at once, and give up all communication with them, or they lose -everything. That is in brief what we have to say.”</p> - -<p>She sat listening without changing her position, with a dimness of -confusion and amaze coming over her clear gaze. The intimation was so -bewildering, so astounding, that her faculties failed to grasp it. Then -she said, “To leave them—my children? To be separated from my -children?” with a shrill tone of inquiry, rising into a sort of -breathless cry.</p> - -<p>John Trevanion took his hands from his face, and looked at her with a -look which brought more certainty than words. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> old lawyer clasped -his hands upon the papers before him, without lifting his eyes, and -mournfully nodded again and again his gray head. But she waited for an -answer. She could not let herself believe it. “It is not <i>that</i>? My head -is going round. I don’t understand the meaning of words. It is not -<i>that</i>?”</p> - -<p>And then she rose up suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together, -and cried out, “My God!” The men rose too, as with one impulse; and John -Trevanion called out loudly to the doctor, who hurried to her. She put -them away with a motion of her hands. “The doctor? What can the doctor -do for me?” she cried, with the scorn of despair. “Go, go, go! I need no -support.” The men had come close to her on either side, with that -confused idea that the victim must faint or fall, or sustain some -physical convulsion, which men naturally entertain in respect to a -woman. She made a motion, as if to keep them away, with her arms, and -stood there in the midst, her pale face, with the white surroundings of -her distinctive dress, clearly defined against the other dusk and -troubled countenances. They thought the moments of suspense endless, but -to her they were imperceptible. Not all the wisest counsellors in the -world could have helped her in that effort of desperation which her -lonely soul was making to understand. There was so much that no one knew -but herself. Her mind went through all the details of a history -unthought of. She had to put together and follow the thread of events, -and gather up a hundred indications which now came all flashing about -her like marsh-lights, leading her swift thoughts here and there, -through the hitherto undivined workings of her husband’s mind, and -ripening of fate. Thus it was that she came slowly to perceive what it -meant, and all that it meant, which nature, even when perceiving the -sense of the words, had refused to believe. When she spoke they all -started with a sort of panic and individual alarm, as if something might -be coming which would be too terrible to listen to. But what she said -had a strange composure,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> which was a relief, yet almost a horror, to -them. “Will you tell me,” she asked, “exactly what it is, again?”</p> - -<p>Old Mr. Blake sat down again at the table, fumbled for his spectacles, -unfolded his papers. Meanwhile she stood and waited, with the others -behind her, and listened without moving while he read, this time in its -legal phraseology, the terrible sentence. She drew a long breath when it -was over. This time there was no amaze or confusion. The words were like -fire in her brain.</p> - -<p>“Now I begin to understand. I suppose,” she said, “that there is nothing -but public resistance, and perhaps bringing it before a court of law, -that could annul <i>that</i>? Oh, do not fear. I will not try; but is that -the only way?”</p> - -<p>The old lawyer shook his head. “Not even that. He had the right; and -though he has used it as no man should have used it, still, it is done, -and cannot be undone.”</p> - -<p>“Then there is no help for me,” she said. She was perfectly quiet, -without a tear or sob or struggle. “No help for me,” she repeated, with -a wan little smile about her mouth. “After seventeen years! He had the -right, do you say? Oh, how strange a right! when I have been his wife -for seventeen years.” Then she added, “Is it stipulated when I am to go? -Is there any time given to prepare? And have you told my boy?”</p> - -<p>“Not a word has been said, Grace—to any one,” John Trevanion said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I did not think of that. What is he to be told? A boy of that age. -He will think his mother is— John, God help me! what will you say to my -boy?”</p> - -<p>“God help us all!” cried the strong man, entirely overcome. “Grace, I do -not know.”</p> - -<p>“The others are too young,” she said; “and Rosalind— Rosalind will trust -me; but Rex—it will be better to tell him the simple truth, that it is -his father’s will; and perhaps when he is a man he will understand.” She -said this with a steady voice, like some queen making her last -dispositions in full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> health and force before her execution—living, yet -dying. Then there ensued another silence, which no one ventured to -break, during which the doomed woman went back into her separate world -of thought. She recovered herself after a moment, and, looking round, -with once more that faint smile, asked, “Is there anything else I ought -to hear?”</p> - -<p>“There is this, Mrs. Trevanion,” said old Blake. “One thing is just -among so much— What was settled on you is untouched. You have a right -to—”</p> - -<p>She threw her head high with an indignant motion, and turned away; but -after she had made a few steps towards the door, paused and came back. -“Look,” she said, “you gentlemen; here is something that is beyond you, -which a woman has to bear. I must accept this humiliation, too. I cannot -dig, and to beg I am ashamed.” She looked at them with a bitter dew in -her eyes, not tears. “I must take his money and be thankful. God help -me!” she said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Trevanion</span> appeared at dinner as usual, coming into the drawing-room -at the last moment, to the great surprise of the gentlemen, who stared -and started as if at a ghost as she came in, their concealed alarm and -astonishment forming a strange contrast to the absolute calm of Mrs. -Lennox, the slight boyish impatience of Reginald at being kept waiting -for dinner, and the evident relief of Rosalind, who had been questioning -them all with anxious eyes. Madam was very pale; but she smiled and made -a brief apology. She took old Mr. Blake’s arm to go in to dinner, who, -though he was a man who had seen a great deal in his life, shook “like -as a leaf,” he said afterwards; but her arm was as steady as a rock, and -supported him. The doctor said to her under his breath as they sat down, -“You are doing too much. Remember, endurance is not boundless.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span>” “Is it -not?” she said aloud, looking at him with a smile. He was a man of -composed and robust mind, but he ate no dinner that day. The dinner was -indeed a farce for most of the company. Aunt Sophy, indeed, though with -a shake of her head, and a sighing remark now and then, took full -advantage of her meal, and Reginald cleared off everything that was set -before him with the facility of his age; but the others made such -attempts as they could to deceive the calm but keen penetration of -Dorrington, who saw through all their pretences, and having served many -meals in many houses after a funeral, knew that “something” must be -“up,” more than Mr. Trevanion’s death, to account for the absence of -appetite. There was not much conversation either. Aunt Sophy, indeed, to -the relief of every one, took the position of spokeswoman. “I would not -have troubled to come down-stairs this evening, Grace,” she said. “You -always did too much. I am sure all the watching and nursing you have had -would have killed ten ordinary people; but she never spared herself, did -she, doctor? Well, it is a satisfaction now. You must feel that you -neglected nothing, and that everything that could be thought of was -done—everything! I am sure you and I, John, can bear witness to that, -that a more devoted nurse no man ever had. Poor Reginald,” she added, -putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “if he did not always seem so -grateful as he ought, you may be sure, dear, it was his illness that was -to blame, not his heart.” No one dared to make any reply to this, till -Madam herself said, after a pause, her voice sounding distinct through a -hushed atmosphere of attention, “All that is over and forgotten; there -is no blame.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear,” said innocent Sophy; “that is a most natural and -beautiful sentiment for you. But John and I can never forget how patient -you were. A king could not have been better taken care of.”</p> - -<p>“Everybody,” said the doctor, with fervor, “knows that. I have never -known such nursing;” and in the satisfaction of saying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> this he managed -to dispose of the chicken on his plate. His very consumption of it was -to Madam’s credit. He could not have swallowed a morsel, but for having -had the opportunity for this ascription of praise.</p> - -<p>“And if I were you,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I would not worry myself about -taking up everything so soon again. I am sure you must want a thorough -rest. I wish, indeed, you would just make up your mind to come home with -me, for a change would do you good. I said to poor dear Maria Heathcote, -when I left her this morning, ‘My dear, you may expect me confidently -to-night; unless my poor dear sister-in-law wants me. But dear Grace -has, of course, the first claim upon me,’ I said. And if I were you I -would not try my strength too much. You should have stayed in your room -to-night, and have had a tray with something light and trifling. You -don’t eat a morsel,” Aunt Sophy said, with true regret. “And Rosalind -and I would have come up-stairs and sat with you. I have more experience -than you have in trouble,” added the good lady with a sigh (who, indeed, -“had buried two dear husbands,” as she said), “and that has always been -my experience. You must not do too much at first. To-morrow is always a -new day.”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow,” Mrs. Trevanion said, “there will be many things to think -of.” She lingered on the word a little, with a tremulousness which all -the men felt as if it had been a knife going into their hearts. Her -voice got more steady as she went on. “You must go back to school on -Monday, Rex,” she said; “that will be best. You must not lose any time -now, but be a man as soon as you can, for all our sakes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, as for being a man,” said Reginald, “that doesn’t just depend on -age, mother. My tutor would rather have me for his captain than Smith, -who is nineteen. He said so. It depends upon a fellow’s character.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I think too,” she said, with a smile upon her boy. “And, -Sophy, if you will take Rosalind and your godchild<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> instead of me, I -think it will do them good. I—you may suppose I have a great many -things to think of.”</p> - -<p>“Leave them, dear, till you are stronger, that is my advice; and I know -more about trouble than you do,” Mrs. Lennox said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion gave a glance around her. There was a faint smile upon -her face. The three gentlemen sitting by did not know even that she -looked at them, but they felt each like a culprit, guilty and -responsible. Her eyes seemed to appeal speechlessly to earth and heaven, -yet with an almost humorous consciousness of good Mrs. Lennox’s -superiority in experience. “I should like Rosalind and Sophy to go with -you for a change,” she said, quietly. “The little ones will be best at -home. Russell is not good for Sophy, Rosalind; but for the little ones -it does not matter so much. She is very kind and careful of them. That -covers a multitude of sins. I think, for their sakes, she may stay.”</p> - -<p>“I would not keep her, mamma. She is dangerous; she is wicked.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by that, Rose? Russell! I should as soon think of -mamma going as of Russell going,” cried Rex. “She says mamma hates her, -but I say—”</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that you do not find yourself above -nursery gossip, Rex, at your age. Never mind, it is a matter to be -talked of afterwards. You are not going away immediately, John?”</p> - -<p>“Not as long as—” He paused and looked at her wistfully, with eyes that -said a thousand things. “As long as I can be of use,” he said.</p> - -<p>“As long as— I think I know what you mean,” Mrs. Trevanion said.</p> - -<p>The conversation was full of these <i>sous-entendus</i>. Except Mrs. Lennox -and Rex, there was a sense of mystery and uncertainty in all the party. -Rosalind followed every speaker with her eyes, inquiring what they could -mean. Mrs. Trevanion was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> the most composed of the company, though -meanings were found afterwards in every word she said. The servants had -gone from the room while the latter part of this conversation went on. -After a little while she rose, and all of them with her. She called -Reginald, who followed reluctantly, feeling that he was much too -important a person to retire with the ladies. As she went out, leaning -upon his arm, she waved her hand to the other gentlemen. “Good-night,” -she said. “I don’t think I am equal to the drawing-room to-night.”</p> - -<p>“What do you want with me, mother? It isn’t right, it isn’t, indeed, to -call me away like a child. I’m not a child; and I ought to be there to -hear what they are going to settle. Don’t you see, mamma, it’s my -concern?”</p> - -<p>“You can go back presently, Rex; yes, my boy, it is your concern. I want -you to think so, dear. And the little ones are your concern. Being the -head of a house means a great deal. It means thinking of everything, -taking care of the brothers and sisters, not only being a person of -importance, Rex—”</p> - -<p>“I know, I know. If this is all you wanted to say—”</p> - -<p>“Almost all. That you must think of your duties, dear. It is unfortunate -for you, oh, very unfortunate, to be left so young; but your Uncle John -will be your true friend.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that don’t matter much. Oh, I dare say he will be good enough. -Then you know, mammy,” said the boy condescendingly, giving her a -hurried kiss, and eager to get away, “when there’s anything very hard I -can come and talk it over with you.”</p> - -<p>She did not make any reply, but kissed him, holding his reluctant form -close to her. He did not like to be hugged, and he wanted to be back -among the men. “One moment,” she said. “Promise me you will be very good -to the little ones, Rex.”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course, mother,” said the boy; “you didn’t think I would beat -them, did you? Good-night.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span></p> - -<p>“Good-bye, my own boy.” He had darted from her almost before she could -withdraw her arm. She paused a moment to draw breath, and then followed -to the door of the drawing-room, where the other ladies were gone. “I -think, Sophy,” she said, “I will take your advice and go to my room; and -you must arrange with Rosalind to take her home with you, and Sophy -too.”</p> - -<p>“That I will, with all my heart; and I don’t despair of getting you to -come. Good-night, dear. Should you like me to come and sit with you a -little when you have got to bed?”</p> - -<p>“Not to-night,” said Mrs. Trevanion. “I am tired out. Good-night, -Rosalind. God bless you, my darling!” She held the girl in her arms, and -drew her towards the door. “I can give you no explanation about last -night, and you will hear other things. Think of me as kindly as you can, -my own, that are none of mine,” she said, bending over her with her eyes -full of tears.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said the girl, flinging herself into Mrs. Trevanion’s arms -with enthusiasm, “you can do no wrong.”</p> - -<p>“God bless you, my own dear!”</p> - -<p>This parting seemed sufficiently justified by the circumstances. The -funeral day! Could it be otherwise than that their nerves were highly -strung, and words of love and mutual support, which might have seemed -exaggerated at other times, should now have seemed natural? Rosalind, -with her heart bursting, went back to her aunt’s side, and sat down and -listened to her placid talk. She would rather have been with her -suffering mother, but for that worn-out woman there was nothing so good -as rest.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion went back to the nursery, where her little children were -fast asleep in their cots, and Sophy preparing for bed. Sophy was still -grumbling over the fact that she had not been allowed to go down to -dessert. “Why shouldn’t I go down?” she cried, sitting on the floor, -taking off her shoes. “Oh, here’s mamma! What difference could it have -made?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> Grown-up people are nasty and cruel. I should not have done any -harm going down-stairs. Reggie is dining down-stairs. He is always the -one that is petted, because he is a boy, though he is only five years -older than me.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Miss Sophy. It was your mamma’s doing, and mammas are always -right.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t think so, Russell. Oh, I don’t want to kiss you, mamma. It -was so unkind, and Reggie going on Monday; and I have not been down to -dessert—not for a week.”</p> - -<p>“But I must kiss you, Sophy,” the mother said. “You are going away with -your aunt and Rosalind, on a visit. Is not that better than coming down -to dessert?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma!” The child jumped up with one shoe on, and threw herself -against her mother’s breast. “Oh, I am so glad. Aunt Sophy lets us do -whatever we please.” She gave a careless kiss in response to Mrs. -Trevanion’s embrace. “I should like to stay there forever,” Sophy said.</p> - -<p>There was a smile on the mother’s face as she withdrew it, as there had -been a smile of strange wonder and wistfulness when she took leave of -Rex. The little ones were asleep. She went and stood for a moment -between the two white cots. Then all was done; and the hour had come to -which, without knowing what awaited her, she had looked with so much -terror on the previous night.</p> - -<p>A dark night, with sudden blasts of rain, and a sighing wind which -moaned about the house, and gave notes of warning of the dreary wintry -weather to come. As Mrs. Lennox and Rosalind sat silent over the fire, -there suddenly seemed to come in and pervade the luxurious house a -blast, as if the night had entered bodily, a great draught of fresh, -cold, odorous, rainy air, charged with the breath of the wet fields and -earth. And then there was the muffled sound as of a closed door. “What -is that?” said Aunt Sophy, pricking up her ears, “It cannot be visitors -come so late, and on such a day as this.”</p> - -<p>“It sounds like some one going out,” Rosalind said, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> shiver, -thinking on what she had seen last night. “Perhaps,” she added eagerly, -after a moment, with a great sense of relief, “Mr. Blake going away.”</p> - -<p>“It will be that, of course, though I did not hear wheels; and what a -dismal night for his drive, poor old gentleman. That wind always makes -me wretched. It moans and groans like a human creature. But it is very -odd, Rosalind, that we did not hear any wheels.”</p> - -<p>“The wind drowns other sounds,” Rosalind said.</p> - -<p>“That must be so, I suppose. Still, I hope he doesn’t think of walking, -Rosalind; an old man of that age.”</p> - -<p>And then once more all fell into silence in the great luxurious house. -Outside the wind blew in the faces of the wayfarers. The rain drenched -them in sudden gusts, the paths were slippery and wet, the trees -discharged sharp volleys of collected rain as the blasts blew. To -struggle across the park was no easy matter in the face of the blinding -sleet and capricious wind; and you could not hear your voice under the -trees for the din that was going on overhead.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rosalind</span> spent a very restless night. She could not sleep, and the rain -coming down in torrents irritated her with its ceaseless pattering. She -thought, she could not tell why, of the poor people who were out in -it—travellers, wayfarers, poor vagrants, such as she had seen about the -country roads. What would the miserable creatures do in such a dismal -night? As she lay awake in the darkness she pictured them to herself, -drenched and cold, dragging along the muddy ways. No one in whom she was -interested was likely to be reduced to such misery, but she thought of -them, she could not tell why. She had knocked at Mrs. Trevanion’s door -as she came up-stairs, longing to go in to say another word, to give her -a kiss in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> weariness. Rosalind had an ache and terrible question in -her heart which she had never been able to get rid of, notwithstanding -the closeness of the intercourse on the funeral day and the exuberant -profession of faith to which she had given vent: “You can do no wrong.” -Her heart had cried out this protestation of faith, but in her mind -there had been a terrible drawing back, like that of the wave which has -dashed brilliantly upon a stony beach only to groan and turn back again, -carrying everything with it. Through all this sleepless night she lay -balancing between these two sensations—the enthusiasm and the doubt. -Her mother! It seemed a sort of blasphemy to judge or question that -highest of all human authorities—that type and impersonation of all -that was best. And yet it would force itself upon her, in spite of all -her holding back. Where was she going that night? Supposing the former -events nothing, what, oh, what was the new-made widow going to do on the -eve of her husband’s funeral out in the park, all disguised and -concealed in the dusk? The more Rosalind denied her doubts expression -the more bitterly did that picture force itself upon her—the veiled, -muffled figure, the watching accomplice, and the door so stealthily -opened. Without practice and knowledge and experience, who could have -done all that? If Rosalind herself wanted to steal out quietly, a -hundred hinderances started up in her way. If she tried anything of the -kind she knew very well that every individual whom she wished to avoid -would meet her and find her out. It is so with the innocent, but with -those who are used to concealment, not so. These were the things that -said themselves in her mind without any consent of hers as she labored -through the night. And when the first faint sounds of waking began to be -audible, a distant door opening, an indication that some one was -stirring, Rosalind got up too, unable to bear it any longer. She sprang -out of bed and wrapped herself in her dressing-gown, resolved to go to -her mother’s room and disperse all those ghosts of night. How often had -she run there in childish troubles and shaken them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> off! That last court -of appeal had never been closed to her. A kiss, a touch of the soft hand -upon her head, a comforting word, had charmed away every spectre again -and again. Perhaps Rosalind thought she would have the courage to speak -all out, perhaps to have her doubts set at rest forever; but even if she -had not courage for that, the mere sight of Mrs. Trevanion was enough to -dispel all prejudices, to make an end of all doubts. It was quite dark -in the passages as she flitted across the large opening of the stairs. -Down-stairs in the great hall there was a spark of light, where a -housemaid, kneeling within the great chimney, was lighting the fire. -There was a certain relief even in this, in the feeling of a new day and -life begun again. Rosalind glided like a ghost, in her warm -dressing-gown, to Mrs. Trevanion’s door. She knocked softly, but there -was no reply. Little wonder, at this hour of the morning; no doubt the -mother was asleep. Rosalind opened the door.</p> - -<p>There is a kind of horror of which it is difficult to give any -description in the sensations of one who goes into a room expecting to -find a sleeper in the safety and calm of natural repose and finds it -empty, cold, and vacant. The shock is extraordinary. The certainty that -the inhabitant must be there is so profound, and in a moment is replaced -by an uncertainty which nothing can equal—a wild dread that fears it -knows not what, but always the worst that can be feared. Rosalind went -in with the soft yet confident step of a child, who knows that the -mother will wake at a touch, almost at a look, and turn with a smile and -a kiss to listen, whatever the story that is brought to her may be. -Fuller confidence never was. She did not even look before going straight -to the bedside. She had, indeed, knelt down there before she found out. -Then she sprang to her feet again with the cry of one who had touched -death unawares. It was like death to her, the touch of the cold, smooth -linen, all folded as it had been in preparation for the inmate—who was -to sleep there no more. She looked round the room as if asking an answer -from every corner. “Mother,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> where are you? Mother! Where are you, -mother?” she cried, with a wild voice of astonishment and dismay.</p> - -<p>There was no light in the room; a faint paleness to show the window, a -silence that was terrible, an atmosphere as of death itself. Rosalind -flew, half frantic, into the dressing-room adjoining, which for some -time past had been occupied by Jane. There a night-light which had been -left burning flickered feebly, on the point of extinction. The faint -light showed the same vacancy—the bed spread in cold order, everything -empty, still. Rosalind felt her senses giving way. Her impulse was to -rush out through the house, calling, asking, Where were they? Death -seemed to be in the place—death more mysterious and more terrible than -that with which she had been made familiar. After a pause she left the -room and hurried breathless to that occupied by her uncle. How different -there was the atmosphere, charged with human breath, warm with -occupation. She burst in, too terrified for thought.</p> - -<p>“Uncle John!” she cried, “Uncle John!” taking him by the shoulder.</p> - -<p>It was not easy to wake him out of his deep sleep. At last he sat up in -his bed, half awake, and looked at her with consternation.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind! what is the matter?” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Mamma is not in her room—where is she, where is she?” the girl -demanded, standing over him like a ghost in the dark.</p> - -<p>“Your mother is not— I—I suppose she’s tired, like all the rest of us,” -he said, with a sleepy desire to escape this premature awakening. “Why, -it’s dark still, Rosalind. Go back to bed, my dear. Your mother—”</p> - -<p>“Listen, Uncle John. Mamma is not in her room. No one has slept there -to-night; it is all empty; my mother is gone, is gone! Where has she -gone?” the girl cried, wildly. “She has not been there all night.”</p> - -<p>“Good God!” John Trevanion cried. He was entirely roused now. “Rosalind, -you must be making some mistake.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span></p> - -<p>“There is no mistake. I thought perhaps you might know something. No one -has slept there to-night. Oh, Uncle John, Uncle John, where is my -mother? Let us go and find her before everybody knows.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, leave me, and I will get up. I can tell you nothing—yes, I -can tell you something; but I never thought it would be like this. It is -your father who has sent her away.”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” the girl cried; “oh, Uncle John, stop before you have taken -everything away from me; neither father nor mother!—you take everything -from me!” she said, with a cry of despair.</p> - -<p>“Go away,” he said, “and get dressed, Rosalind, and then we can see -whether there is anything to be done.”</p> - -<p>An hour later they stood together by the half-kindled fire in the hall. -John Trevanion had gone through the empty rooms with his niece, who was -distracted, not knowing what she did. By this time a pale and gray -daylight, which looked like cold and misery made visible, had diffused -itself through the great house. That chill visibleness, showing all the -arrangements of the room prepared for rest and slumber, where nobody had -slept, had something terrible in it that struck them both with awe. -There was no letter, no sign to be found of leave-taking. When they -opened the wardrobe and drawers, a few dresses and necessaries were -found to be gone, and it appeared that Jane had sent two small boxes to -the village which she had represented to be old clothes, “colored -things,” for which her mistress would now have no need. It was to -Rosalind like a blow in the dark, a buffet from some ghostly hand, -additional to her other pain, when she found it was these “colored -things” and not the prepared, newly made mourning which her stepmother -had taken with her. This seemed a cutting off from them, an entire -abandonment, which made her misery deeper; but naturally John Trevanion -did not think of that. He told her the story of the will while they -stood together in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> the hall. But he could think of nothing to do, nor -could he give any hope that this terrible event was a thing to be undone -or concealed. “It must have happened,” he said, “sooner or later; and -though it is a shock—a great shock—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John, it is—there was never anything so terrible. How can -you use ordinary words? A shock! If the wind had blown down a tree it -would be a shock. Don’t you see, it is the house that has been blown -down? we have nothing—nothing to shelter us, we children. My mother and -my father! We are orphans, and far, far worse than orphans. We having -nothing left but shame—nothing but shame!”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, it is worse for the others than for you. You, at least, are -clear of it; she is not your mother.”</p> - -<p>“She is all the mother I have ever known,” Rosalind cried for the -hundredth time. “And,” she added, with quivering lips, “I am the -daughter of the man who on his death-bed has brought shame upon his own, -and disgraced the wife that was like an angel to him. If the other could -be got over, that can never be got over. He did it, and he cannot undo -it. And she is wicked too. She should not have yielded like that; she -should have resisted—she should have refused; she should not have gone -away.”</p> - -<p>“Had she done so it would have been our duty to insist upon it,” said -John Trevanion, sadly. “We had no alternative. You will find when you -think it over that this sudden going is for the best.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is so easy to say when it is not your heart that is wrung, but -some one else’s; and how can it ever be,” cried Rosalind, with a dismal -logic which many have employed before her, “that what is all wrong from -beginning to end can be for the best?”</p> - -<p>This was the beginning of a day more miserable than words can describe. -They made no attempt to conceal the calamity; it was impossible to -conceal it. The first astounded and terror-stricken housemaid who -entered the room spread it over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> the house like wildfire. Madam had gone -away. Madam had not slept in her bed all night. When Rosalind, who could -not rest, made one of her many aimless journeys up-stairs, she heard a -wail from the nurseries, and Russell, rushing out, suddenly confronted -her. The woman was pale with excitement; and there was a mixture of -compunction and triumph and horror in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“What does this mean, Miss Rosalind? Tell me, for God’s sake!” she -cried.</p> - -<p>It did Rosalind a little good in her misery to find herself in front of -an actor in this catastrophe; one who was guilty and could be made to -suffer. “It means,” she cried, with sudden rage, “that you must leave my -mother’s children at once—this very moment! My uncle will give you your -wages, whatever you want, but you shall not stay here, not an hour.”</p> - -<p>“My wages!” the woman cried, with a sort of scream; “do I care for -wages? Leave my babies, as I have brought up? Oh, never, never! You may -say what you please, you that were always unnatural, that held for her -instead of your own flesh and blood. You are cruel, cruel; but I won’t -stand it— I won’t. There’s more to be consulted, Miss Rosalind, than -you.”</p> - -<p>“I would be more cruel if I could— I would strike you,” cried the -impassioned girl, clinching her small hands, “if it were not a shame for -a lady to do it—you, who have taken away mother from me and made me -hate and despise my own father, oh, God forgive me! And it is your -doing, you miserable woman. Let me never see you again. To see you is -like death to me. Go away—go away!”</p> - -<p>“And yet I was better than a mother to you once,” said Russell, who had -cried out and put her hand to her heart as if she had received a blow. -Her heart was tender to her nursling, though pitiless otherwise. “I -saved your life,” she cried, beginning to weep; “I took you when your -true mother died. You would have loved me but for that woman—that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span>—”</p> - -<p>Rosalind stamped her foot passionately upon the floor; she was -transported by misery and wrath. “Do not dare to speak to me! Go -away—go out of the house. Uncle John,” she cried, hurrying to the -balustrade and looking down into the hall where he stood, too wretched -to observe what was going on, “will you come and turn this woman away?”</p> - -<p>He came slowly up-stairs at this call, with his hands in his pockets, -every line of his figure expressing despondency and dismay. It was only -when he came in sight of Russell, flushed, crying, and injured, yet -defiant too, that he understood what Rosalind meant by the appeal. “Yes, -it will be well that you should go,” he said. “You have made mischief -that never can be mended. No one in this house will ever forgive you. -The best thing you can do is to go—”</p> - -<p>“The mischief was not my making,” cried Russell. “It’s not them that -tells but them that goes wrong that are to blame. And the -children—there’s the children to think of—who will take care of them -like me? I’d die sooner than leave the children. They’re the same as my -flesh and blood. They have been in my hands since ever they were born,” -the woman cried with passion. “Oh, Mr. Trevanion, you that have always -been known for a kind gentleman, let me stay with the children! Their -mother, she can desert them, but I can’t; it will break my heart.”</p> - -<p>“You had better go,” said John Trevanion, with lowering brows. At this -moment Reginald appeared on the scene from another direction, pulling on -his jacket in great hurry and excitement. “What does it all mean?” the -boy cried, full of agitation. “Oh, if it’s only Russell! They told me -some story about— Why are you bullying Russell, Uncle John?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Reginald, you’ll speak for me. You are my own boy, and you are -the real master. Don’t let them break my heart,” cried Russell, holding -out her imploring hands.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if it’s only Russell,” the boy cried, relieved; “but they -said—they told me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span>—”</p> - -<p>Another door opened as he spoke, and Aunt Sophy, dishevelled, the gray -locks falling about her shoulders, a dressing-gown huddled about her -ample figure, appeared suddenly. “For God’s sake, speak low! What does -it all mean? Don’t expose everything to the servants, whatever it is,” -she cried.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Presently</span> they all assembled in the hall—a miserable party. The door of -the breakfast-room stood open, but no one went near it. They stood in a -knot, all huddled together, speaking almost in whispers. Considering -that everybody in the house now knew that Madam had never been in bed at -all, that she must have left Highcourt secretly in the middle of the -night, no precaution could have been more foolish. But Mrs. Lennox had -not realized this; and her anxiety to silence scandal was extreme. She -stood quite close to her brother, questioning him. “But what do you -mean? How could Reginald do it? What did he imagine? And, oh! couldn’t -you put a stop to it, for the sake of the family, John?”</p> - -<p>Young Reginald stood on the other side, confused between anger and -ignorance, incapacity to understand and a desire to blame some one. -“What does she mean by it?” he said. “What did father mean by it? Was it -just to make us all as wretched as possible—as if things weren’t bad -enough before?” It was impossible to convey to either of them any real -understanding of the case. “But how could he part the children from -their mother?” said Aunt Sophy. “She is their mother, their mother; not -their stepmother. You forget, John; she’s Rosalind’s stepmother. -Rosalind might have been made my ward; that would have been natural; but -the others are her own. How could he separate her from her own? She -ought not to have left them! Oh, how could she leave them?” the -bewildered woman cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span></p> - -<p>“If she had not done it the children would have been destitute, Sophy. -It was my business to make her do it, unless she had been willing to -ruin the children.”</p> - -<p>“Not me,” cried Reginald, loudly. “He could not have taken anything from -me. She might have stuck to me, and I should have taken care of her. -What had she to be frightened about? I suppose,” he added after a pause, -“there would have been plenty—to keep all the children too—”</p> - -<p>“Highcourt is not such a very large estate, Rex. Lowdean and the rest -are unentailed. You would have been much impoverished too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Reginald cried, with an angry frown; but then he turned to another -side of the question, and continued vehemently, “Why on earth, when she -knew papa was so cranky and had it all in his power, why did she -aggravate him? I think they must all have been mad together, and just -tried how to spite us most!” cried the boy, with a rush of passionate -tears to his eyes. The house was miserable altogether. He wanted his -breakfast, and he had no heart to eat it. He could not bear the solemn -spying of the servants. Dorrington, in particular, would come to the -door of the breakfast-room and look in with an expression of mysterious -sympathy for which Reginald would have liked to kill him. “I wish I had -never come away from school at all. I wish I were not going back. I wish -I were anywhere out of this,” he cried. But he did not suggest again -that his mother should have “stuck to” him. He wanted to know why -somebody did not interfere; why this thing and the other was permitted -to be done. “Some one could have stopped it if they had tried,” Reginald -said; and that was Aunt Sophy’s opinion too.</p> - -<p>The conclusion of all was that Mrs. Lennox left Highcourt with the -children and Rosalind as soon as their preparations could be made, by -way of covering as well as possible the extraordinary revolution in the -house. It was the only expedient any of these distracted people could -think of to throw a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> little illusion over Mrs. Trevanion’s abrupt -departure. Of course they were all aware everything must be known. What -is there that is not known? And to think that a large houseful of -servants would keep silent on such a piece of family history was past -all expectation. No doubt it was already known through the village and -spreading over the neighborhood. “Madam” had been caught meeting some -man in the park when her husband was ill, poor gentleman! And now, the -very day of the funeral, she was off with the fellow, and left all her -children, and everything turned upside down. The older people all knew -exactly what would be said, and they knew that public opinion would -think the worst, that no explanations would be allowed, that the -vulgarest, grossest interpretation would be so much easier than anything -else, so ready, so indisputable—she had gone away with her lover. Mrs. -Lennox herself could not help thinking so in the depths of her mind, -though on the surface she entertained other vague and less assured -ideas. What else could explain it? Everybody knew the force of passion, -the way in which women will forsake everything, even their children, -even their homes—that was comprehensible, though so dreadful. But -nothing else was comprehensible. Aunt Sophy, in the depth of her heart, -though she was herself an innocent woman, was not sure that John was not -inventing, to shield his sister-in-law, that incredible statement about -the will. She felt that she herself would say anything for the same -purpose—she would not mind what it was—anything rather than that -Grace, a woman they had all thought so much of, had “gone wrong” in such -a dreadful way. Nevertheless it was far more comprehensible that she had -“gone wrong” than any other explanation could be. Though she had been a -woman upon whom no breath of scandal had ever come, a woman who overawed -evil speakers, and was above all possibility of reproach, yet it was -always possible that she might have “gone wrong.” Against such hazards -there could be no defence. But Mrs. Lennox was very willing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> to do -anything to cover up the family trouble. She even went the length of -speaking somewhat loudly to her own maid, in the hearing of some of the -servants of the house, about Mrs. Trevanion’s “early start.” “We shall -catch her up on the way,” Mrs. Lennox said. “I don’t wonder, do you, -Morris, that she went by that early train? Poor dear! I remember when I -lost my first dear husband I couldn’t bear the sight of the house and -the churchyard where he was lying. But we shall catch her up,” the -kind-hearted hypocrite said, drying her eyes. As if the housemaids were -to be taken in so easily! as if they did not know far more than Mrs. -Lennox did, who thus lent herself to a falsehood! When the children came -down, dressed in their black frocks, with eyes wide open and full of -eager curiosity, Mrs. Lennox was daunted by the cynical air with which -Sophy, her namesake and godchild, regarded her. “You needn’t say -anything to me about catching up mamma, for I know better,” the child -said, vindictively. “She likes somebody else better than us, and she has -just gone away.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind,” Mrs. Lennox cried, in dismay, “I hope that woman is not -coming with us, that horrible woman that puts such things into the -children’s heads. I hope you have sent Russell away.”</p> - -<p>But when the little ones were all packed in the carriage with their -aunt, who could not endure to see any one cry, there was a burst of -simultaneous weeping. “I neber love nobody but Nana. I do to nobody but -Nana,” little Johnny shouted. His little sister said nothing, but her -small mouth quivered, and the piteous aspect of her face, struggling -against a passion of restrained grief, was the most painful of all. -Sophy, however, continued defiant. “You may send her away, but me and -Reginald will have her back again,” she said. Aunt Sophy could scarcely -have been more frightened had she taken a collection of bombshells with -her into the carriage. The absence of mamma was little to the children, -who had been so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> much separated from her by their father’s long illness; -but Russell, the “Nana” of their baby affections, had a closer hold.</p> - -<p>With these rebellious companions, and with all the misery of the family -tragedy overshadowing her, Rosalind made the journey more sadly than any -of the party. At times it seemed impossible for her to believe that all -the miseries that had happened were real. Was it not rather a dream from -which she might awaken, and find everything as of old? To think that she -should be leaving her home, feeling almost a fugitive, hastily, -furtively, in order to cover the flight of one who had been her type of -excellence all her life: to think that father and mother were both gone -from her—gone out of her existence, painfully, miserably; not to be -dwelt upon with tender grief, such as others had the privilege of -enduring, but with bitter anguish and shame. The wails of the children -as they grew tired with the journey, the necessity of taking the -responsibility of them upon herself, hushing the cries of the little -ones for “Nana,” silencing Sophy, who was disposed to be impertinent, -keeping the weight of the party from the too susceptible shoulders of -the aunt, made a complication and interruption of her thoughts which -Rosalind was too inexperienced to feel as an alleviation, and which made -a fantastic mixture of tragedy and burlesque in her mind. She had to -think of the small matters of the journey, and to satisfy Aunt Sophy’s -fears as to the impossibility of getting the other train at the -junction, and the risk of losing the luggage, and to persuade her that -Johnny’s restlessness, his refusal to be comforted by the anxious -nursery-maid, and wailing appeals for Russell, would wear off by and by -as baby-heartbreaks do. “But I have known a child fret itself to death,” -Mrs. Lennox cried. “I have heard of instances in which they would not be -comforted, Rosalind; and what should we do if the child was to pine, and -perhaps to die?” Rosalind, so young, so little experienced, was -overwhelmed by this suggestion. She took Johnny upon her own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> lap, and -attempted to soothe him, with a sense that she might turn out a kind of -murderer if the child did not mend. It was consolatory to feel that, -warmly wrapped, and supported against her young bosom, Johnny got -sleepy, and moaned himself into oblivion of his troubles. But this was -not so pleasant when they came to the junction, and Rosalind had to -stumble out of the carriage somehow, and hurry to the waiting train with -poor little Johnny’s long legs thrust out from her draperies. It was at -this moment, as she got out, that she saw a face in the crowd which gave -her a singular thrill in the midst of her trouble. The wintry afternoon -was falling into darkness, the vast, noisy place was swarming with life -and tumult. She had to walk a little slower than the rest on account of -her burden, which she did not venture to give into other arms, in case -the child should wake. It was the face of the young man whom she had met -in the park—the stranger, so unlike anybody else, about whom she had -been so uncomfortably uncertain whether he was or not— But what did that -matter? If he had been a prince of the blood or the lowest adventurer, -what was it to Rosalind? Her mind was full of other things, and no man -in the world had a right to waylay her, to follow her, to trace her -movements. It made her hot and red with personal feeling in the midst of -all the trouble that surrounded her. He had no right—no right; and yet -the noblest lover who ever haunted his lady’s window to see her shadow -on the blind had no right; and perhaps, if put into vulgar words, Romeo -had no right to scale that wall, and Juliet on her balcony was a forward -young woman. There are things which are not to be defended by any rule, -which youth excuses, nay, justifies; and to see a pair of sympathetic -eyes directed towards her through the crowd—eyes that found her out -amid all that multitude—touched Rosalind’s heart. Somehow they made her -trouble, and even the weight of her little brother, who was heavy, more -easy to bear. She was weak and worn out, and this it was, perhaps, which -made her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> so easily moved. But the startled sensation with which she -heard a voice at her side, somewhat too low and too close, saying, “Will -you let me carry the child for you, Miss Trevanion?” whirled the softer -sensation away into eddies of suspicion and dark thrills of alarm and -doubt. “Oh, no, no!” she cried, instinctively hurrying on.</p> - -<p>“I ask nothing but to relieve you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, thanks! I am much obliged to you, but it is impossible. It would -wake him,” she said hurriedly, not looking up.</p> - -<p>“You think me presumptuous, Miss Trevanion, and so I am; but it is -terrible to see you so burdened and not be able to help.”</p> - -<p>This made her burden so much the more that Rosalind quickened her steps, -and stumbled and almost fell. “Oh, please,” she said, “go away. You may -mean to be kind. Oh, please go away.”</p> - -<p>The nursery-maid, who came back at Mrs. Lennox’s orders to help -Rosalind, saw nothing particular to remark, except that the young lady -was flushed and disturbed. But to hurry along a crowded platform with a -child in your arms was enough to account for that. The maid could very -well appreciate such a drawback to movement. She succeeded, with the -skill of her profession, in taking the child into her own arms, and -repeated Mrs. Lennox’s entreaties to make haste. But Rosalind required -no solicitation in this respect. She made a dart forward, and was in the -carriage in a moment, where she threw herself into a seat and hid her -face in her hands.</p> - -<p>“I knew it would be too much for you,” said Aunt Sophy, soothingly. “Oh, -Thirza is used to it. I pity nurses with all my heart; but they are used -to it. But you, my poor darling, in such a crowd! Did you think we -should miss the train? I know what that is—to hurry along, and yet be -sure you will miss it. Here, Thirza, here; we are all right; and after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> -all there is plenty of time.” After a pause Aunt Sophy said, “I wonder -who that is looking so intently into this carriage. Such a remarkable -face! But I hope he does not mean to get in here; we are quite full -here. Rosalind, you look like nothing at all in that corner, in your -black dress. He will think the seat is vacant and come in if you don’t -make a little more appearance. Rosalind— Good gracious, I believe she -has fainted!”</p> - -<p>“No, Aunt Sophy.” Rosalind raised her head and uncovered her pale face. -She knew that she should see that intruder looking at her. He seemed to -be examining the carriages, looking for a place, and as she took her -hands from her face their eyes met. There was that unconscious -communication between them which betrays those who recognize each other, -whether they make any sign or not. Aunt Sophy gave a wondering cry.</p> - -<p>“Why, you know him! and yet he does not take his hat off. Who is it, -Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“I have seen him—in the village—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know,” cried little Sophy, pushing forward. “It is the gentleman. -I have seen him often. He lived at the Red Lion. Don’t you remember, -Rosalind, the gentleman that mamma wouldn’t let me—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sophy, be quiet!” cried the girl. What poignant memories awoke with -the words!</p> - -<p>“But how strange he looks,” cried Sophy. “His hat down over his eyes, -and I believe he has got a beard or something—”</p> - -<p>“You must not run on like that. I dare say it is quite a different -person,” said Aunt Sophy. “What made me notice him is that he has eyes -exactly like little Johnny’s eyes.”</p> - -<p>It was one of Aunt Sophy’s weaknesses that she was always finding out -likenesses; but Rosalind’s mind was disturbed by another form of her -original difficulty about the stranger. It might be forgiven him that he -hung about her path, and even followed at a distance; it was excusable -that he should ask if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> he could help her with the child; but having thus -ventured to accost her, and having established a sort of acquaintance by -being useful to her, why, when their eyes met, did he make no sign of -recognition? No, he could not be a gentleman! Then Rosalind awoke with -horror to find that on the very first day after all the calamities that -had befallen her family she was able to discuss such a question with -herself.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">John Trevanion</span> remained in the empty house. It had seemed that morning -as if nothing could be more miserable: but it was more miserable now, -when every cheerful element had gone out of it, and not even the distant -sound of a child’s voice, or Rosalind’s dress, with its faint sweep of -sound, was to be heard in the vacancy. After he had seen them off he -walked home through the village with a very heavy heart. In front of the -little inn there was an unusual stir: a number of rustic people gathered -about the front of the house, surrounding two men of an aspect not at -all rustical, who were evidently questioning the slow but eager rural -witnesses. “It must ha’ been last night as he went,” said one. “I don’t -know when he went,” said another, “but he never come in to his supper, -I’ll take my oath o’ that.” They all looked somewhat eagerly towards -John, who felt himself compelled to interfere, much as he disliked doing -so. “What is the matter?” he asked, and then from half a dozen eager -mouths the story rushed out. “A gentleman” had been living at the Red -Lion for some time back. Nobody, it appeared, could make out what he -wanted there; everybody (they now said) suspected him from the first. He -would lie in bed all morning, and then get up towards afternoon. Nothing -more was necessary to demonstrate his immorality, the guilt of the man. -He went out trapesing in the woods at night, but he wasn’t no poacher, -for he never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> seemed to handle a gun nor know aught about it. He would -turn white when anybody came in and tried a trigger, or to see if the -ball was drawn. No, he wasn’t no poacher: but he did always be in the -woods o’ night, which meant no good, the rustics thought. There were -whisperings aside, and glances, as this description was given, which -were not lost upon John, but his attention was occupied in the first -place by the strangers, who came forward and announced that they were -detectives in search of an offender, a clerk in a merchant’s office, who -had absconded, having squandered a considerable sum of his master’s -money. “But this is an impossible sort of place for such a culprit to -have taken refuge in,” John said, astounded. The chief of the two -officers stepped out in front of the other, and asked if he might say a -few words to the gentleman, then went on accompanying John, as he -mechanically continued his way, repressing all appearance of the -extraordinary commotion thus produced in his mind.</p> - -<p>“You see, sir,” said the man, “it’s thought that the young fellow had -what you may call a previous connection here.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! was he perhaps related to some one in the village? I never heard -his name.” (The name was Everard, and quite unknown to the -neighborhood.)</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Trevanion,” said the other, significantly, “not in the -village.”</p> - -<p>“Where, then—what do you mean? What could the previous connection that -brought him here be?”</p> - -<p>The man took a pocket-book from his pocket, and produced a crumpled -envelope. “You may have seen this writing before, sir,” he said.</p> - -<p>John took it with a thrill of pain and alarm, recognizing the paper, the -stamp of “Highcourt,” torn but decipherable on the seal, and feeling -himself driven to one conclusion which he would fain have pushed from -him; but when he had smoothed it out, with a hand which trembled in -spite of himself, he suddenly cried out, with a start of overwhelming -surprise and relief,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> “Why, it is my brother’s hand!”</p> - -<p>“Your brother’s?” cried the officer, with a blank look. “You mean, sir, -the gentleman that was buried yesterday?”</p> - -<p>“My brother, Mr. Trevanion, of Highcourt. I do not know how he can have -been connected with the person you seek. It must have been some -accidental link. I have already told you I never heard the name.”</p> - -<p>The man was as much confused and startled as John himself. “If that’s -so,” he said, “you have put us off the track, and I don’t know now what -to do. We had heard,” he added, with a sidelong look of vigilant -observation, “that there was a lady in the case.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about any lady,” said John Trevanion, briefly.</p> - -<p>“There’s no trusting to village stories, sir. We were told that a lady -had disappeared, and that it was more than probable—”</p> - -<p>“As you say, village stories are entirely untrustworthy,” said John. “I -can throw no light on the subject, except that the address on the -envelope (Everard, is it?) is in my brother’s hand. He might, of course, -have a hundred correspondents unknown to me, but I certainly never heard -of this one. I suppose there is no more I can do for you, for I am -anxious to get back to Highcourt. You have heard, no doubt, that the -family is in deep mourning and sorrow.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry, sir,” said the official, “and distressed to have -interrupted you at such a moment, but it is our duty to leave no stone -unturned.” Then he lingered for a moment. “I suppose, then,” he said, -“there is no truth in the story about the lady—”</p> - -<p>John turned upon him with a short laugh. “You don’t expect me, I hope, -to answer for all the village stories about ladies,” he said, waving his -hand as he went on. “I have told you all I know.”</p> - -<p>He quickened his pace and his companion fell back. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> the officer was -not satisfied, and John Trevanion went on, with his mind in a dark and -hopeless confusion, not knowing what extraordinary addition of -perplexity was added to the question by this new piece of evidence, but -feeling vaguely that it increased the darkness all around him. He had -not in any way associated the stranger whom he had met on the road with -his sister-in-law. He had thought it likely enough that the young man, -perhaps of pretensions too humble to get admittance at Highcourt, had -lingered about in foolish youthful adoration of Rosalind, which, however -presumptuous it might be, was natural enough. To hear now that the young -man who had presumed to do Miss Trevanion a service was a criminal in -hiding made his blood boil. But his brother’s handwriting threw -everything into confusion. How did this connect with the rest, what -light did it throw upon the imbroglio, in what way could it be connected -with the disappearance of Madam? All these things surged about him -vaguely as he walked, but he could make nothing coherent, no rational -whole out of them. The park and the trees lay in a heavy mist. The day -was not cold, but stifling, with a low sky, and heavy vapors in the air, -everything around wet, sodden, dreary. Never had the long stretches of -turf and distant glades of trees seemed to him so lonely, so deserted -and forsaken. There was not a movement to be seen, nobody coming by that -public pathway which had been so great a grievance to the Trevanions for -generations back. John, though he shared the family feeling in this -respect, would have gladly now seen a village procession moving along -the contested path. The house seemed to him to lie in a cold enclosure -of mist and damp, abandoned by everybody, a spot on which there was a -curse. But this, of course, was merely fanciful; and he shook off the -feeling. There was pain enough involved in its recent history without -the aid of imagination.</p> - -<p>There was plenty to do, however. Mr. Trevanion’s papers had to be put in -order, his personal affairs wound up; and it was almost better to have -no interruption in this duty, and so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> get over it as quickly as -possible. There is something dreadful under all circumstances in -fulfilling this office. To examine into the innermost recesses in which -a man has kept his treasures, his most intimate possessions, the -records, perhaps, of his affections and ambitions; to open his desk, to -pull out his drawers, to turn over the letters which, perhaps, to him -were sacred, never to be revealed to any eye but his own, is an office -from which it is natural to shrink. The investigator feels himself a -spy, taking advantage of the pathetic helplessness of the dead, their -powerlessness to protect themselves. John Trevanion sat down in the -library with the sense of intrusion strong upon him, yet with a certain -painful curiosity too. He was afraid of discovering something. At every -new harmless paper which he opened he drew a long breath of relief. The -papers of recent times were few—they were chiefly on the subject of -money, the investments which had been made, appeals for funds sent to -him for the needs of the estate, for repairs and improvements, which it -was evident Mr. Trevanion had been slow to yield to. It seemed from the -letters addressed to him that most of his business had been managed -through his wife, which was a fact his brother was aware of; but somehow -the constant reference to her, and the evident position assigned to her -as in reality the active agency in the whole, added a curious and -bewildering pang to the confusion in which all this had closed. It -seemed beyond belief that this woman, who had stood by her husband so -faithfully, his nurse, his adviser, his agent, his eyes and ears, should -be now a sort of fugitive, under the dead man’s ban, separated from all -she cared for in the world. John stopped in the middle of a bundle of -letters to ask himself whether he had ever known a similar case. There -was nothing like it in the law reports, nothing even in those <i>causes -célèbres</i> which include so many wonders. A woman with everything in her -hands, her husband’s business as well as his health, and the governance -of her great household, suddenly turned away from it without reason -given or any explanation—surely the man must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> have been mad—surely he -must have been mad! It was the only solution that seemed possible. But -then there arose before the thinker’s troubled vision those scenes which -had preceded his brother’s death—the bramble upon her dress, the wet -feet which she had avowed, with—was it a certain bravado? And again, -that still more dreadful moment in the park, on the eve of her husband’s -funeral, when he had himself seen her meet and talk with some one who -was invisible in the shadow of the copse. He had seen it, there could be -no question on the subject. What did it mean? He got up, feeling the -moisture rise to his forehead in the conflict of his feelings; he could -not sit still and go for the hundredth time over this question. What did -it mean?</p> - -<p>While he was walking up and down the library, unable to settle to any -examination of those calm business papers in which no agitation was, a -letter was brought to him. It bore the stamp of a post-town at a short -distance, and he turned it over listlessly enough, until it occurred to -him that the writing was that of his sister-in-law. Madam wrote as many -women write; there was nothing remarkable about her hand. John Trevanion -opened the letter with excitement. It was as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Brother John</span>,—You may not wish me to call you so now, but I -have always felt towards you so, and it still seems a link to those -I have left behind to have one relationship which I may claim. -There seems no reason why I should not write to you, or why I -should conceal from you where I am. You will not seek to bring me -back; I am safe enough in your hands. I am going out of England, -but if you want to communicate with me on any subject, the bankers -will always know where I am. It is, as I said, an additional -humiliation in my great distress that I must take the provision my -husband has made, and cannot fling it back to you indignantly as a -younger woman might. I am old enough to know, and bitterly -acknowledge, that I cannot hope to maintain myself; and I have -others dependent on me. This necessity will always make it easy -enough to find me, but I do not fear that you will wish to seek me -out or bring me back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<p>“I desire you to know that I understand my husband’s will better -than any one else, and perhaps, knowing his nature, blame him less -than you will be disposed to do. When he married me I was very -forlorn and miserable. I had a story, which is the saddest thing -that can be said of a woman. He was generous to me then in every -particular but one, but that one was very important. I had to make -a sacrifice, an unjustifiable sacrifice, and a promise which was -unnatural. Herein lies my fault. I have not kept that promise; I -could not; it was more than flesh and blood was capable of; and I -deceived him. I was always aware that if he discovered it he might, -and probably would, take summary vengeance. Now he has discovered -it, and he has done without ruth what he promised me to do if I -broke my word to him. I deserve it, you see, though not in the way -the vulgar will suppose. To them I cannot explain, and -circumstances, alas, make it impossible for me to be explicit even -with you. But perhaps, even in writing so much, you may be -delivered from some suspicions of me which, if I read you right, -you will be glad to find are not justified.</p> - -<p>“Farewell, dear John; if we ever should meet in this world—if I -should ever be cleared— I cannot tell—most likely not—my children -will grow up without knowing me; but I dare not think on that -subject, much less say anything. God bless them! Be as much a -father to them as you can, and let my Rosalind have the letter I -enclose; it will do her no harm: anyhow, she would not believe harm -of me, even though she saw what looked like harm. Pity me a little, -John. I have taken my doom quietly because I have no hope—neither -in what I leave nor in what I go to is there any hope.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">Grace Trevanion.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>This letter forced tears, such as a man is very slow to shed, to John -Trevanion’s eyes; but there was in reality no explanation in it, no -light upon the family catastrophe, or the confusion of misery and -perplexity she had left behind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">“Have</span> you ever noticed in your walks, doctor, a young fellow?—you -couldn’t but remark him—a sort of <i>primo tenore</i>, big eyed, pale -faced—”</p> - -<p>“All pulmonary,” said Dr. Beaton. “I know the man you mean. He has been -hanging about for a month, more or less, with no visible object. To tell -the truth—”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion raised his hand instinctively. “I find,” he said, -interrupting with a hurried precaution, “that he has been in hiding for -some offence, and men have come after him here because of an envelope -with the Highcourt stamp—”</p> - -<p>Here Dr. Beaton began, with a face of regret, yet satisfaction, to nod -his head, with that offensive air of “I knew it all the time,” which is -more exasperating than any other form of remark.</p> - -<p>“The Highcourt stamp,” continued Trevanion, peremptorily, “and a -direction written in my poor brother’s hand.”</p> - -<p>“In your brother’s hand!”</p> - -<p>“I thought I should surprise you,” John said, with a grim satisfaction. -“I suppose it is according to the rules of the profession that so much -time should have been let slip. I am very glad of it, for my part. -Whatever Reginald can have had to do with the fellow—something -accidental, no doubt—it would have been disagreeable to have his name -mixed up— I saw the man myself trying to make himself agreeable to -Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“To Miss Trevanion?” cried the doctor, with evident dismay. “Why, I -thought—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was a very simple matter,” said John, interrupting again. “He -laid down some planks for her to cross the floods.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> And the recompense -she gave him was to doubt whether he was a gentleman, because he had -paid her a compliment—which I must say struck me as a very modest -attempt at a compliment.”</p> - -<p>“It was a tremendous piece of presumption,” said the doctor, with Scotch -warmth. “I don’t doubt Miss Rosalind’s instinct was right, and that he -was no gentleman. He had not the air of it, in my opinion—a limp, -hollow-eyed, phthisical subject.”</p> - -<p>“But consumption does not spare even the cream of society, doctor. It -appears he must have had warning of the coming danger, for he seems to -have got away.”</p> - -<p>“I thought as much!” said Dr. Beaton. “I never expected to see more of -him after— Oh, I thought as much!”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion eyed the doctor with a look that was almost threatening, -but he said nothing more. Dr. Beaton, too, was on the eve of departure; -his occupation was gone, and his <i>tête-à-tête</i> with John Trevanion not -very agreeable to either of them. But the parting was friendly on all -sides. “The doctor do express himself very nicely,” Dorrington said, -when he joined the company in the housekeeper’s room, after having -solemnly served the two gentlemen at dinner, “about his stay having been -agreeable and all that—just what a gentleman ought to say. There are -medical men of all kinds, just as there are persons of all sorts in -domestic service; and the doctor, he’s one of the right sort.”</p> - -<p>“And a comfort, whatever ailed one, to know there was a doctor in the -house, and as you’d be right done by,” the housekeeper said, which was -the general view in the servants’ hall. These regions were, as may be -supposed, deeply agitated. Russell, one of the most important among -them, had been sent forth weeping and vituperating, and the sudden -departure of the family had left the household free to make every -commentary, possible and impossible. Needless to say that Madam’s -disappearance had but one explanation among them. In all circles the -question would have been so decided by the majority;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> in the servants’ -hall there was unanimity; no one was bold enough to make a different -suggestion, and had it been made it would have been laughed to scorn. -There were various stories told about her supposed lover, and several -different suppositions current. Gentlemen of different appearances had -been seen about the park by different spectators, and men in careful -disguises had even been admitted into the house, some were certain. That -new man who came to wind the clocks! Why should a new man have been -sent? And he had white hands, altogether unlike the hands of one who -worked for his living. The young man who had lived at the Red Lion was -not left out of the suspicions of the house, but he had not so important -a place there as he had in the mind, for example, of Dr. Beaton, who -had, with grief and pain, but now not without a certain satisfaction, -concluded upon his identity. The buzz and talk, and the whirl of -suppositions and real or imaginary evidence, made a sort of -reverberation through the house. Now and then, when doors were open and -the household off their guard, which, occurred not unfrequently in the -extraordinary calm and leisure, the sounds of the eager voices were -heard even as far as the library, in which John Trevanion sat with his -papers, and sometimes elicited from him a furious message full of -bitterness and wrath. “Can’t you keep your subordinates quiet and your -doors shut,” he said to Dorrington, “instead of leaving them to disturb -me with their infernal clatter and gossip?” “I will see to it, sir,” -said Dorrington, with dignity; “but as for what goes on in the servants’ -’all, I ’ear it only as you ’ear it yourself, sir.” John bade the -over-fine butler to go to—a personage who need not be named, to whom -very fine persons go; and went on with his papers with a consciousness -of all that was being said, the flutter of endless talk which before now -must have blown abroad over all the country, and the false conclusions -that would be formed. He could not publish her letter in the same -way—her letter, which said so much yet so little, which did not, alas, -explain anything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> She had accepted the burden, fully knowing what it -was, not deceiving herself as to anything that was to follow; but in -such a case the first sufferer is scarcely so much to be pitied as the -succeeding victims, who have all the misery of seeing the martyr -misconstrued and their own faith laughed at. There were times indeed -when John Trevanion was not himself sure that he had any faith, and felt -himself incapable of striving any longer with the weight of probability -against her which she had never attempted to remove or explain.</p> - -<p>He went through all the late Mr. Trevanion’s papers without finding any -light on the subject of his connection with Everard, or which could -explain the fact of his letter to that person. Several letters from his -bankers referred indeed to the payment of money at Liverpool, which was -where the offender had lived, but this was too faint a light to be -calculated upon. As the days went on, order came to a certain degree out -of the confusion in John Trevanion’s mind. To be suddenly turned out of -the easy existence of a London bachelor about town, with his cosey -chambers and luxurious club, and made to assume the head and charge of a -family so tragically abandoned, was an extraordinary effort for any man. -It was a thing, could he have known it beforehand, which would have made -him fly to the uttermost parts of the earth to avoid such a charge; but -to have no choice simplifies matters, and the mind habituates itself -instinctively to what it is compelled to do. He decided, after much -thought, that it was better the family should not return to Highcourt. -In the changed circumstances, and deprived of maternal care and -protection as they were, no woman about them more experienced than -Rosalind, their return could not be otherwise than painful and -embarrassing. He decided that they should remain with their aunt, having -absolute confidence in her delighted acceptance of their guardianship. -Sophy, indeed, was quite incapable of such a charge, but they had -Rosalind, and they had the ordinary traditions by which such families -are guided. They would, he thought, come to no harm. Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> Lennox lived -in the neighborhood of Clifton, far enough off to avoid any great or -general knowledge of the family tragedy. The majority of the servants -were consequently dismissed, and Highcourt, with its windows all closed -and its chimneys all but smokeless, fell back into silence, and stood -amid its park and fine trees, a habitation of the dead.</p> - -<p>It was not until he had done this that John Trevanion carried her -stepmother’s letter to Rosalind. He had a very agitating interview with -her on the day of his arrival at the Limes, which was the suburban -appellation of Sophy’s house. He had to bear the artillery of anxious -looks during dinner, and to avoid as he could his sister’s questions, -which were not over wise, as to what he had heard, and what he thought, -and what people were saying; and it was not till the evening, when the -children were disposed of, and Sophy herself had retired, that Rosalind, -putting her hand within his arm, drew him to the small library, in which -Mrs. Lennox allowed the gentlemen to “make themselves comfortable,” as -she said, tolerating tobacco. “I know you have something to say to me, -Uncle John—something that you could not say before—them all.”</p> - -<p>“Little to say, but something to give you, Rosalind.” She recognized her -stepmother’s handwriting in a moment, though it was, as we have said, -little remarkable, and with a cry of agitated pleasure threw herself -upon it. It was a bulky letter, not like that which he had himself -received, but when it was opened was found to contain a long and -particular code of directions about the children, and only a small -accompanying note. This Rosalind read with an eagerness which made her -cheeks glow.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“My Rosalind, I am sometimes glad to think now that you are not -mine, and never can have it said to you that your mother is not—as -other mothers are. Sophy and little Amy are not so fortunate. You -must make it up to them, my darling, by being everything to -them—better than I could have been. And when people see what you -are they will forget me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>“That is not to say, my dearest, that you are to give up your faith -in me. For the moment all is darkness—perhaps will always be -darkness, all my life. There are cases that may occur in which I -shall be able to tell you everything, but what would that matter so -long as your father’s prohibition stands? My heart grows sick when -I think that in no case— But we will not dwell upon that. My own -(though you are not my own), remember me, love me. I am no more -unworthy of it than other women are. I have written down all I can -think of about the children. You will no doubt have dismissed -Russell, but after a time I almost think she should be taken back, -for she loves the children. She always hated me, but she loves -them. If you can persuade yourself to do it, take her back. Love is -too precious to be lost. I am going away from you all very quietly, -not permitting myself to reflect. When you think of me, believe -that I am doing all I can to live—to live long enough to see my -children again. My darling, my own child, I will not say good-bye -to you, but only God bless you; and till we meet again,</p> - -<p class="c"> -“Your true -<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mother and Friend</span>.”</span><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>“My true mother,” Rosalind said, with the tears in her eyes, “my dearest -friend! Oh, Uncle John, was there ever any such misery before? Was it -ever so with any woman? Were children ever made wretched like this, and -forced to suffer? And why should it fall to our share?”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion shook his head, pondering over the letter, and over the -long, perfectly calm, most minute, and detailed instructions which -accompanied it. There was nothing left out or forgotten in these -instructions. She must have spent the night in putting down every little -detail, the smallest as well as the greatest. The writing of the letter -to Rosalind showed a little trembling; a tear had fallen on it at one -spot; but the longer paper showed nothing of the kind. It was as clear -and steady as the many manuscripts from the same hand which he had -looked over among his brother’s papers; statements of financial -operations, of farming, of improvements. She had put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> down all the -necessary precautions to be taken for her children in the same way, -noting all their peculiarities, for the guidance of the young sister who -was hereafter to have the charge of them. This document filled the man -with the utmost wonder. Rosalind took it a great deal more easily. To -her it was natural that her mother should give these instructions; they -were of the highest importance to herself in her novel position, and she -understood perfectly that Madam would be aware of the need of them, and -that to make some provision for that need would be one of the first -things to occur to her. But John Trevanion contemplated the paper from a -very different point of view. That a woman so outraged and insulted as -(if she were innocent) she must feel herself to be, should pause on the -eve of her departure from everything dear to her, from honor and -consideration, her home and her place among her peers, to write about -Johnny’s tendency to croup and Amy’s readiness to catch cold, was to him -more marvellous than almost anything that had gone before. He lingered -over it, reading mechanically all those simple directions. A woman at -peace, he thought, might have done it, one who knew no trouble more -profound than a child’s cough or chilblains. But this woman—in the -moment of her anguish—before she disappeared into the darkness of the -distant world! “I do not understand it at all,” he said as he put it -down.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Rosalind, “who could understand it? I think papa must have -been mad. Are not bad wills sometimes broken, Uncle John?”</p> - -<p>“Not such a will as this. He had a right to leave his money as he -pleased.”</p> - -<p>“But if we were all to join—if we were to show the mistake, the -dreadful mistake, he had made—”</p> - -<p>“What mistake? You could prove that your stepmother was no common woman, -Rosalind. A thing like this is astounding to me. I don’t know how she -could do it. You might prove that she had the power to make fools of you -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> me. But you could prove nothing more, my dear. Your father knew -something more than we know. It might be no mistake; he might have very -good reason. Even this letter, though it makes you cry, explains -nothing, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“I want nothing explained,” cried the girl. “Do you think I have any -doubt of <i>her</i>? I could not bear that she should explain—as if I did -not know what she is! But, Uncle John, let us all go together to the -judge that can do it, and tell him everything, and get him to break the -will.”</p> - -<p>“The judge who can do that is not to be found in Westminster, Rosalind. -It must be one that sees into the heart. I believe in her too—without -any reason—but to take it to law would only be to make our domestic -misery a little better known.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind looked at him with large eyes full of light and excitement. She -felt strong enough to defy the world. “Do you mean to say that, whatever -happens, though we could prove what we know of her, that she is the -best—the best woman in the world—”</p> - -<p>“Were she as pure as ice, as chaste as snow, there is nothing to be -done. Your father does not say, because of this or that. What he says is -absolute. If she continue with the children, or in communication with -them, they lose everything.”</p> - -<p>“Then let us lose everything,” cried Rosalind in her excitement; “rather -be poor and work for our bread, than lose our mother.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion shook his head. “She has already chosen,” he said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Russell</span> left Highcourt in such wild commotion of mind and temper, such -rage, grief, compunction, and pain, that she <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span>was incapable of any real -perception of what had happened, and did not realise, until the damp air -blowing in her face as she hurried across the park, sobbing and crying -aloud, and scarcely able to keep herself from screaming, brought back -her scattered faculties, either what it was that she had been -instrumental in doing, or what she had brought upon herself. She did not -now understand what it was that had happened to Madam, though she had a -kind of vindictive joy, mingled with that sinking of the heart which -those not altogether hardened to human suffering feel in regarding a -catastrophe brought about by their means, in the thought that she had -brought illimitable, irremediable harm to her mistress, whom she had -always hated. She had done this whatever might come of it, and even in -the thrill of her nerves that owned a human horror of this calamity, -there was a fierce exhilaration of success in having triumphed over her -enemy. But perhaps she had never wished, never thought, of so complete a -triumph. The desire of revenge, which springs so naturally in the -undisciplined mind, and is so hot and reckless in its efforts to harm -its object, has most generally no fixed intention, but only a vague wish -to injure, or, rather, punish; for Russell, to her own consciousness, -was inspired by the highest moral sentiment, and meant only to bring -retribution on the wicked and to open the eyes of a man who was -deceived. She did not understand what had really occurred, but the fact -that she had ruined her mistress was at the same time terrible and -delightful to her. She did not mean so much as that; but no doubt Madam -had been found out more wicked than was supposed, and her heart swelled -with pride and a gratified sense of importance even while she trembled. -But the consequences to herself were such as she had never foreseen, and -for the moment overwhelmed her altogether. She wept hysterically as she -hurried to the village, stumbling over the inequalities of the path, -wild with sorrow and anger. She had meant to remain in Madam’s service, -though she had done all she could to destroy her. She thought nothing -less than that life would go on without much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> visible alteration, and -that she herself, because there was nobody like her, would necessarily -remain with the children to whom her care was indispensable. She had -brought them all up from their birth. She had devoted herself to them, -and felt her right in them almost greater than their mother’s. “My -children,” she said, as the butler said “my plate,” and the housemaid -“my grates and carpets.” She spent her whole life with them, whereas it -is only a part of hers that the most devoted mother can give. The woman, -though she was cruel and hard-hearted in one particular, was in this as -tender and sensitive as the most gentle and feminine of women. She loved -the children with passion. The idea that they could be torn away from -her had never entered her mind. What would they do without her? The two -little ones were delicate: they required constant care; without her own -attention she felt sure they never could be “reared:” and to be driven -from them at a moment’s notice, without time to say good-bye! Sobs came -from her breast, convulsive and hysterical, as she rushed along. “Oh, my -children!” she cried, under her breath, as if it were she who had been -robbed, and who refused to be comforted. She passed some one on the way, -who stopped astonished, to look after her, but whom she could scarcely -see through the mist of her tears, and at last, with a great effort, -subduing the passionate sounds that had been bursting from her, she -hurried through the nearest corner of the village to her mother’s house, -and there, flinging herself down upon a chair, gave herself up to all -the violence of that half-artificial, half-involuntary transport known -as hysterics. Her mother was old, and beyond such violent emotions; but -though greatly astonished, she was not unacquainted with the -manifestation. She got up from the big chair in which she was seated, -tottering a little, and hurried to her daughter, getting hold of and -smoothing out her clinched fingers. “Dear, dear, now, what be the -matter?” she said, soothingly; “Sarah, Sarah, come and look to your poor -sister. What’s come to her, what’s come to her, the poor dear? Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> -bless us, but she do look bad. Fetch a drop of brandy, quick; that’s the -best thing to bring her round.”</p> - -<p>When Russell had been made to swallow the brandy, and had exhausted -herself and brought her mother and sister into accord with her partial -frenzy, she permitted herself to be brought round. She sat up wildly -while still in their hands, and stared about her as if she did not know -where she was. Then she seized her mother by the arm; “I have been sent -away,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Sent away. She’s off of her head still, poor dear! Sent away, when they -can’t move hand nor foot without you!”</p> - -<p>“That’s not so now, mother. It’s all true. I’ve been all the same as -turned out of the house, and by her as I nursed and thought of most of -all; her as was like my very own; Miss Rosalind! Oh!” and Russell showed -inclination to “go off” again, which the assistants resisted by promptly -taking possession of her two arms, and opening the hands which she would -have clinched if she could.</p> - -<p>“There now, deary; there now! don’t you excite yourself. You’re among -them that wishes you well here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know that, mother. But Miss Rosalind, she’s as good as taken me -by the shoulders and put me out of the house, and took my children from -me as I’ve brought up; and what am I to do without my babies? Oh, oh! I -wish I had never been born.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you’ve got your wages and board wages, and something over to -make up? You ought to have that,” said the sister, who was a woman of -good sense. Russell, indeed, had sufficient command of herself to nod in -assent.</p> - -<p>“And your character safe?” said the old woman. “I will say that for you, -deary, that you have always been respectable. And whatever it is that’s -happened, so long as it’s nothing again your character, you’ll get -another place fast enough. I don’t hold with staying too long in one -family. You’d just like to stick there forever.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t speak to me about new places. My children as I’ve brought up! -It has nothing to do with me; it’s all because I told master of Madam’s -goings-on. And he’s been and put her away in his will—and right too. -And Miss Rosalind, that always was unnatural, that took to that woman -more than to her aunt, or me, or any one, she jumps up to defend Madam, -and ‘go out of the house, woman!’ and stamping with her foot, and going -on like a fury. And my little Master Johnny, that would never go to -nobody but me! Oh, mother, I’ll die of it, I’ll die of it—my children -that I’ve brought up!”</p> - -<p>“I’ve told you all,” said the old woman, “never you meddle with the -quality. It can’t come to no good.” She had given up her ministrations, -seeing that her patient had come round, and retired calmly to her chair. -“Madam’s goings-on was no concern of yours. You ought to have known -that. When a poor person puts herself in the way of a rich person, it’s -always her as goes to the wall.”</p> - -<p>Of these maxims the mother delivered herself deliberately as she sat -twirling her thumbs. The sister, who was the mistress of the cottage, -showed a little more sympathy.</p> - -<p>“As long as you’ve got your board wages,” she said, “and a somethin’ to -make up. Mother’s right enough, but I’ll allow as it’s hard to do. -They’re all turned topsy-turvy at the Red Lion about Madam’s young -man—him as all this business was about.”</p> - -<p>“What’s about him?” cried Russell, for the first time with real energy -raising her head.</p> - -<p>“It turns out as he’s robbed his masters in Liverpool,” said Sarah, with -the perfect coolness of a rustic spectator; “just what was to be -expected; and the detectives is after him. He was here yesterday, I’ll -take my oath, but now he’s gone, and there’s none can find him. There’s -a reward of—”</p> - -<p>“I’ll find him,” cried Russell, springing to her feet. “I’ll track him. -I’m good for nothing now in a common way. I cannot rest, I cannot settle -to needlework or that sort.” She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> was fastening her cloak as she spoke, -and tying on her bonnet. “I’ve heaps of mending to do, for I never had a -moment’s time to think of myself, but only of them that have showed no -more gratitude— My heart’s broke, that’s what it is— I can’t settle -down; but here’s one thing I’m just in a humor to do— I’ll track him -out.”</p> - -<p>“Lord, Lizzie! what are you thinking of it? You don’t know no more than -Adam what way they’re gone, or aught about him.”</p> - -<p>“And if you’ll take my advice, deary,” said the old woman, “you’ll -neither make nor meddle with the quality. Right or wrong, it’s always -the poor folk as go to the wall.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll track him, that’s what I’ll do. I’m just in the humor for that,” -cried Russell, savagely. “Don’t stop me. What do I care for a bit of -money to prove as I’m right. I’ll go and I’ll find them. Providence will -put me on the right way. Providence’ll help me to find all that villainy -out.”</p> - -<p>“But, Lizzie! stop and have a bit to eat at least. Don’t go off like -that, without even a cup of tea—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t speak to me about cups of tea!” Russell rushed at her mother -and dabbed a hurried kiss upon her old cheek. She waved her hand to her -sister, who stood open-mouthed, wondering at her, and finally rushed out -in an excitement and energy which contrasted strangely with her previous -prostration. The two rustic spectators stood gazing after her with -consternation. “She was always one as had no patience,” said the mother -at last. “And without a bit of dinner or a glass of beer, or anything,” -said Sarah. After that they returned to their occupations and closed the -cottage door.</p> - -<p>Russell rushed forth to the railway station, which was at least a mile -from the village. She was transported out of herself with excitement, -misery, a sense of wrong, a sense of remorse—all the conflicting -passions which the crisis had brought. To prove to herself that her -suspicions were justified about Madam was in reality as strong a motive -in her mind as the fierce desire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> of revenge upon her mistress, which -drove her nearly frantic; and she had that wild confidence in chance, -and indifference to reason, which are at once the strength and weakness -of the uneducated. She would get on the track somehow; she would find -them somehow; Madam’s young man, and Madam herself. She would give him -up to justice, and shame the woman for whose sake she had been driven -forth. And, as it happened, Russell, taking her ticket for London, found -herself in the same carriage with the man who had come in search of the -stranger at the Red Lion, and acquired an amount of information and -communicated a degree of zeal which stimulated the search on both sides. -When they parted in town she was provided with an address to which to -telegraph instantly on finding any trace of the fugitives, and flung -herself upon the great unknown world of London with a faith and a -virulence which were equally violent. She did not know where to go nor -what to do; she had very little acquaintance with London. The Trevanions -had a town house in a street near Berkeley Square, and all that she knew -was the immediate neighborhood of that dignified centre—of all places -in the world least likely to shelter the fugitives. She went there, -however, in her helplessness, and carried consternation to the bosom of -the charwoman in charge, who took in the strange intelligence vaguely, -and gaped and hoped as it wasn’t true. “So many things is said, and few -of ’em ever comes true,” this philosophical observer said. “But I’ve -come out of the middle of it, and I know it’s true, every word,” she -almost shrieked in her excitement. The charwoman was a little hard of -hearing. “We’ll hope as it’ll all turn out lies—they mostly does,” she -said. This was but one of many rebuffs the woman met with. She had spent -more than a week wandering about London, growing haggard and thin; her -respectable clothes growing shabby, her eyes wild—the want of proper -sleep and proper food making a hollow-eyed spectre of the once smooth -and dignified upper servant—when she was unexpectedly rewarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> for all -her pangs and exertions by meeting Jane one morning, sharply and -suddenly, turning round a corner. The two women paused by a mutual -impulse, and then one cried, “What are you doing here?” and the other, -grasping her firmly by the arm, “I’ve caught you at last.”</p> - -<p>“Caught me! Were you looking for me? What do you want? Has anything -happened to the children?” Jane cried, beginning to tremble.</p> - -<p>“The children! how dare you take their names in your mouth, you as is -helping to ruin and shame them? I’ll not let you go now I’ve got you; -oh, don’t think it! I’ll stick to you till I get a policeman.”</p> - -<p>“A policeman to me!” cried poor Jane, who, not knowing what mysterious -powers the law might have, trembled more and more. “I’ve done nothing,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“But them as you are with has done a deal,” cried Russell. “Where is -that young man? Oh, I know— I know what he’s been and done. I have took -an oath on my Bible that I’ll track him out. If I’m to be driven from my -place and my dear children for Madam’s sake, she shall just pay for it, -I can tell you. You thought I’d put up with it and do nothing, but a -worm will turn. I’ve got it in my power to publish her shame, and I’ll -do it. I know a deal more than I knew when I told master of her -goings-on. But now I’ve got you I’ll stick to you, and them as you’re -with, and I’ll have my revenge,” Russell cried, her wild eyes flaming, -her haggard cheeks flushing; “I’ll have my revenge. Ah!”</p> - -<p>She paused here with a cry of consternation, alarm, dismay, for there -stepped out of a shop hard by, Madam herself, and laid a hand suddenly -upon her arm.</p> - -<p>“Russell,” she said, “I am sorry they have sent you away. I know you -love the children.” At this a convulsive movement passed across her -face, which sent through the trembling, awe-stricken woman a sympathetic -shudder. They were one in this deprivation, though they were enemies. -“You have always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> hated me, I do not know why: but you love the -children. I would not have removed you from them. I have written to Miss -Rosalind to bid her have you back when—when she is calmer. And you that -have done me so much harm, what do you want with me?” said Madam, -looking with the pathetic smile which threw such a strange light upon -her utterly pale face, upon this ignorant pursuer.</p> - -<p>“I’ve come— I’ve come”—she gasped, and then stood trembling, unable to -articulate, holding herself up by the grasp she had taken with such -different intentions of Jane’s arm, and gazing with her hollow eyes with -a sort of fascination upon the lady whom at last she had hunted down.</p> - -<p>“I think she is fainting,” Madam said. “Whatever she wants, she has -outdone her strength.” There was a compassion in the tone, which, in -Russell’s weakened state, went through and through her. Her mistress -took her gently by the other arm, and led her into the shop she had just -left. Here they brought her wine and something to eat, of which she had -the greatest need. “My poor woman,” said Madam, “your search for me was -vain, for Mr. John Trevanion knows where to find me at any moment. You -have done me all the harm one woman could do another; what could you -desire more? But I forgive you for my children’s sake. Go back, and -Rosalind will take you again, because you love them; and take care of my -darlings, Russell,” she said, with that ineffable smile of anguish; “say -no ill to them of their mother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam, kill me!” Russell cried.</p> - -<p>That was the last that was seen in England of Madam Trevanion. The -woman, overcome with passion, remorse, and long fasting and misery, -fainted outright at her mistress’s feet. And when she came to herself -the lady and her maid were both gone, and were seen by her no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is nothing more strange in all the experiences of humanity than -the manner in which a great convulsion either in nature or in human -history ceases after a while to affect the world. Grass grows and -flowers wave over the soil which an earthquake has rent asunder; and the -lives of men are similarly torn in twain without leaving a much more -permanent result. The people whom we see one year crushed by some great -blow, when the next has come have begun to pursue their usual course -again. This means no infidelity of nature, no forgetting; but only the -inevitable progress by which the world keeps going. There is no trouble, -however terrible, that does not yield to the touch of time.</p> - -<p>Some two years after these events Rosalind Trevanion felt herself, -almost against her will, emerging out of the great shadow which had -overwhelmed her life. She had been for a time swallowed up in the needs -of the family, all her powers demanded for the rearrangement of life on -its new basis, and everything less urgent banished from her. But by -degrees the most unnatural arrangements fall into the calm of habit, the -most unlooked-for duties become things of every day. Long before the -period at which this history resumes, it had ceased to be wonderful to -any one that Rosalind should take her place as head of the desolated -house. She assumed unconsciously that position of sister-mother which is -one of the most touching and beautiful that exist, with the ease which -necessity brings—not asking how she could do it, but doing it; as did -the bystanders who criticise every course of action and dictate what can -and what cannot be done, but who all accepted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> her in her new duties -with a composure which soon made everybody forget how strange, how -unlikely, to the girl those duties were. The disappearance of the -mother, the breaking-up of the house, was no doubt a nine-days’ wonder, -and gave occasion in the immediate district for endless discussions; but -the wonder died out as every wonder dies out. Outside of the county it -was but vaguely known, and to those who professed to tell the details -with authority there was but a dull response; natural sentiment at a -distance being all against the possibility that anything so -extraordinary and odious could be true. “You may depend upon it, a woman -who was going to behave so at the end must have shown signs of it from -the beginning,” people said, and the propagation of the rumor was thus -seriously discouraged. Mrs. Lennox, though she was not wise, had enough -of good sense and good feeling not to tell even to her most intimate -friends the circumstances of her sister-in-law’s disappearance; and this -not so much for Madam’s sake as for that of her brother, whose -extraordinary will appeared to her simple understanding so great a shame -and scandal that she kept it secret for Reginald’s sake. Indeed, all she -did in the matter was for Reginald’s sake. She did not entertain the -confidence in Madam with which Rosalind and John enshrined the fugitive. -To Rosalind, Mrs. Lennox said little on the subject, with a respect for -the girl’s innocence which persons of superior age and experience are -not always restrained by; but that John, a man who knew the world, -should go on as he did, was a thing which exasperated his sister. How he -could persuade himself of Mrs. Trevanion’s innocence was a thing she -could not explain. Why, what could it be? she asked herself, angrily. -Everybody knows that the wisest of men or women are capable of going -wrong for one cause; but what other could account for the flight of a -woman, of a mother from her children, the entire disappearance of her -out of all the scenes of her former life? When her brother told her that -there was no help for it, that in the interests of her children Madam -was compelled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> to go away, Aunt Sophy said “Stuff!” What was a woman -good for if she could not find some means of eluding such a monstrous -stipulation? “Do you think I would have minded him? I should have -disguised myself, hidden about, done anything rather than desert my -family,” she cried; and when it was suggested to her that Madam was too -honorable, too proud, too high-minded to deceive, Sophy said nothing but -“Stuff!” again. “Do you think anything in the world would make me -abandon my children—if I had any?” she cried. But though she was angry -with John and impatient of Rosalind, she kept the secret. And after a -time all audible comments on the subject died away. “There is something -mysterious about the matter,” people said; “I believe Mrs. Trevanion is -still living.” And then it began to be believed that she was ill and -obliged to travel for her health, which was the best suggestion that -could have been made.</p> - -<p>And Rosalind gradually, but nevertheless fully, came out of the shadow -of that blighting cloud. What is there in human misery which can -permanently crush a heart under twenty? Nothing, at least save the last -and most intolerable of personal losses, and even then only in the case -of a passionate, undisciplined soul or a feeble body. Youth will -overcome everything if it has justice and fresh air and occupation. And -Rosalind made her way out of all the ways of gloom and misery to the sky -and sunshine. Her memory had, indeed, an indelible scar upon it at that -place. She could not turn back and think of the extraordinary mystery -and anguish of that terrible moment without a convulsion of the heart, -and sense that all the foundations of the earth had been shaken. But -happily, at her age, there is not much need of turning back upon the -past. She shivered when the momentary recollection crossed her mind, but -could always throw it off and come back to the present, to the future, -which are always so much more congenial.</p> - -<p>This great catastrophe, which made a sort of chasm between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> her and her -former life, had given a certain maturity to Rosalind. At twenty she had -already much of the dignity, the self-possession, the seriousness of a -more advanced age. She had something of the air of a young married -woman, a young mother, developed by the early experiences of life. The -mere freshness of girlhood, even when it is most exquisite, has a less -perfect charm than this; and the fact that Rosalind was still a girl, -notwithstanding the sweet and noble gravity of her responsible position, -added to her an exceptional charm. She was supposed by most people to be -five years at least older than she was: and she was the mother of her -brothers and sisters, at once more and less than a mother; perhaps less -anxious, perhaps more indulgent, not old enough to perceive with the -same clearness or from the same point of view, seeing from the level of -the children more than perhaps a mother can. To see her with her little -brother in her lap was the most lovely of pictures. Something more -exquisite even than maternity was in this virgin-motherhood. She was a -better type of the second mother than any wife. This made a sort of halo -around the young creature who had so many responsibilities. But yet in -her heart Rosalind was only a girl; the other half of her had not -progressed beyond where it was before that great crisis. There was -within her a sort of decisive consciousness of the apparent maturity -which she had thus acquired, and she only such a child—a girl at heart.</p> - -<p>In this profound girlish soul of hers, which was her very self, while -the other was more or less the product of circumstances, it still -occurred to Rosalind now and then to wonder how it was that she had -never had a lover. Even this was meant in a manner of her own. Miss -Trevanion of Highcourt had not been without suitors; men who had admired -her beauty or her position. But these were not at all what she meant by -a lover. She meant what an imaginative girl means when such a thought -crosses her mind. She meant Romeo, or perhaps Hamlet—had love been -restored to the possibilities of that noblest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> of all disenchanted -souls—or even such a symbol as Sir Kenneth. She wondered whether it -would ever be hers to find wandering about the world the other part of -her, him who would understand every thought and feeling, him to whom it -would be needless to speak or to explain, who would know; him for whom -mighty love would cleave in twain the burden of a single pain and part -it, giving half to him. The world, she thought, could not hold together -as it did under the heavens, had it ceased to be possible that men and -women should meet each other so. But such a meeting had never occurred -yet in Rosalind’s experience, and seeing how common it was, how -invariable an occurrence in the experience of all maidens of poetry and -fiction, the failure occasioned her always a little surprise. Had she -never seen any one, met about the world any form, in which she could -embody such a possibility? She did not put this question to herself -plainly, but there was in her imagination a sort of involuntary answer -to it, or rather the ghost of an answer, which would sometimes make -itself known, from without, she thought, more than from within—as if a -face had suddenly looked at her, or a whisper been breathed in her ear. -She did not give any name to this vision or endeavor to identify it.</p> - -<p>But imagination is obstinate and not to be quenched, and in inadvertent -moments she half acknowledged to herself that it had a being and a name. -Who or what he was, indeed, she could not tell; but sometimes in her -imagination the remembered tone of a voice would thrill her ears, or a -pair of eyes would look into hers. This recollection or imagination -would flash upon her at the most inappropriate moments; sometimes when -she was busy with her semi-maternal cares, or full of household -occupation which left her thoughts free—moments when she was without -defence. Indeed, temptation would come upon her in this respect from the -most innocent quarter, from her little brother, who looked up at her -with eyes that were like the eyes of her dream. Was that why he had -become<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> her darling, her favorite, among the children? Oh, no; it was -because he was the youngest, the baby, the one to whom a mother was most -of all wanting. Aunt Sophy, indeed, who was so fond of finding out -likenesses, had said— And there was a certain truth in it. Johnny’s eyes -were very large and dark, shining out of the paleness of his little -face; he was a delicate child; or perhaps only a pale-faced child -looking delicate, for there never was anything the matter with him. His -eyes were very large for a child, appearing so, perhaps, because he was -himself so little; a child of fine organization, with the most delicate, -pure complexion, and blue veins showing distinctly through the delicate -tissue of his skin. Rosalind felt a sort of dreamy bliss come over her -when Johnny fixed his great, soft eyes upon her, looking up with a -child’s devout attention. She loved the child dearly, was not that -enough? And then there was the suggestion. Likenesses are very curious; -they are so arbitrary, no one can tell how they come; there was a -likeness, she admitted to herself; and then wondered—half wishing it, -half angry with herself for the idea—whether perhaps it was the -likeness to her little brother which had impressed the face of a -stranger so deeply upon her dreams.</p> - -<p>Who was he? Where did he come from? Where, all this long time, for these -many months, had he gone? If it was because of her he had come to the -village, how strange that he should never have appeared again! It was -impossible it could have been for her; yet, if not for her, for whom -could he have come? She asked herself these questions so often that her -vision gradually lost identity and became a tradition, an abstraction, -the true lover after whom she had been wondering. She endowed him with -all the qualities which girls most dearly prize. She talked to him upon -every subject under heaven. In all possible emergencies that arose to -her fancy he came and stood by her and helped her. No real man is ever -so noble, so tender, so generous as such an ideal man can be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> And -Rosalind forgot altogether that she had asked herself whether it was -certain that he was a gentleman, the original of this shadowy figure -which had got into her imagination she scarcely could tell how.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Lennox’s</span> house was not a great country-house like Highcourt. It was -within a mile of Clifton, a pretty house, set in pretty grounds, with a -few fields about it, and space enough to permit of a sufficient but -modest establishment; horses and dogs, and pets in any number to satisfy -the children. Reginald, indeed, when he came home for the holidays, -somewhat scoffed at the limited household, and declared that there was -scarcely room to breathe. For the young master of Highcourt everything -was small and shabby, but as his holidays were broken by visits to the -houses of his schoolfellows, where young Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt had -many things in his favor, and as he thus managed to get as much shooting -and hunting and other delights as a schoolboy can indulge in, he was, on -the whole, gracious enough to Aunt Sophy and Rosalind, and their limited -ways. The extraordinary changes that followed his father’s death had -produced a curious effect upon the boy; there had been, indeed, a moment -of impulse in which he had declared his intention of standing by his -mother, but a fuller understanding of all that was involved had -summarily checked this. The youthful imagination, when roused by the -thought of wealth and importance, is as insatiable in these points as it -is when inflamed by the thirst for pleasure, and it is, perhaps, more -difficult to give up or consent to modify greatness which you have never -had, but have hoped for, than to give up an actual possession. Reginald -had felt this importance as his father’s heir so much, that the idea of -depriving himself of it for the sake of his mother brought a sudden damp -and chill all over his energies. He was silent when he heard what a -sacrifice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> was necessary, even though it was a sacrifice in imagination -only, the reality being unknown to him. And from that moment the thing -remarkable in him was that he had never mentioned his mother’s name.</p> - -<p>With the other children this effect had at the end of the year been -almost equally attained, but by degrees; they had ceased to refer to her -as they had ceased to refer to their father. Both parents seemed to have -died together to these little ones. The one, like the other, faded as -the dead do out of their personal sphere, and ceased to have any place -in their life. They said Rosalind now, when they used to say mamma. But -with Reginald the effect was different—young though he was, in his -schoolboy sphere he had a certain knowledge of the world. He knew that -it was something intolerable when a fellow’s family was in everybody’s -mouth, and his mother was discussed and talked of, and there was a sort -of half-fury against her in his mind for subjecting him to this. The -pangs which a proud boy feels in such circumstances are difficult to -fathom, for their force is aggravated by the fact that he never betrays -them. The result was that he never mentioned her, never asked a -question, put on a mien of steel when anything was said which so much as -suggested her existence, and from the moment of his departure from -Highcourt ignored altogether the name and possibility of a mother. He -was angry with the very name.</p> - -<p>Sophy was the only one who caused a little embarrassment now and then by -her recollections of the past life of Highcourt and the household there. -But Sophy was not favorable to her mother, which is a strange thing to -say, and had no lingering tenderness to smother; she even went so far -now and then as to launch a jibe at Rosalind on the subject of mamma. As -for the little ones, they already remembered her no more. The Elms, -which was the suburban title of Mrs. Lennox’s small domain, became the -natural centre of their little lives, and they forgot the greater and -more spacious house in which they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> born. And now that the second -year was nearly accomplished since the catastrophe happened, natural -gayety and consolation had come back. Rosalind went out to such -festivities as offered. She spent a few weeks in London, and saw a -little of society. The cloud had rolled away from her young horizon, -leaving only a dimness and mist of softened tears. And the Elms was, in -its way, a little centre of society. Aunt Sophy was very hospitable. She -liked the pleasant commotion of life around her, and she was pleased to -feel the stir of existence which the presence of a girl brings to such a -house. Rosalind was not a beauty so remarkable as to draw admirers and -suitors from every quarter of the compass. These are rare in life, -though we are grateful to meet so many of them in novels; but she was -extremely pleasant to look upon, fair and sweet as so many English girls -are, with a face full of feeling, and enough of understanding and poetry -to give it something of an ideal charm. And though it was, as we have -said, the wonder of her life that she had never, like young ladies in -novels, had a lover, yet she was not without admiration nor without -suitors, quite enough to maintain her self-respect and position in the -world.</p> - -<p>One of these was the young Hamerton who was a visitor at Highcourt at -the opening of this history. He was the son of another county family of -the Highcourt neighborhood; not the eldest son, indeed, but still not -altogether to be ranked among the detrimentals, since he was to have his -mother’s money, a very respectable fortune. And he was by way of being a -barrister, although not so unthoughtful of the claims of others as to -compete for briefs with men who had more occasion for them. He had come -to Clifton for the hunting, not, perhaps, without a consciousness of -Rosalind’s vicinity. He had not shown at all during the troubles at -Highcourt or for some time after, being too much disturbed and alarmed -by his own discovery to approach the sorrowful family. But by degrees -this feeling wore off, and a girl who was under Mrs. Lennox’s wing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> and -who, after all, was not “really the daughter” of the erring woman, would -have been most unjustly treated had she been allowed to suffer in -consequence of the mystery attached to Madam Trevanion and her -disappearance from the world. Mrs. Lennox had known Roland Hamerton’s -father as well as Rosalind knew himself. The families had grown up -together, calling each other by their Christian names, on that -preliminary brother-and-sister footing which is so apt with opportunity -to grow into something closer. And Roland had always thought Rosalind -the prettiest girl about. When he got over the shock of the Highcourt -mystery his heart had come back to her with a bound. And if he came to -Clifton for the hunting instead of to any other centre, it was with a -pleasant recollection that the Elms was within walking distance, and -that there he was always likely to find agreeable occupation for “off” -days. On such occasions, and even on days which were not “off” days, he -would come, sometimes to luncheon, sometimes in the afternoon, with the -very frequent consequence of sending off a message to Clifton for “his -things,” and staying all night. He was adopted, in short, as a sort of -son or nephew of the house.</p> - -<p>It is undeniable that a visitor of this sort (or even more than one) is -an addition to the cheerfulness of a house in the country. It may, -perhaps, be dangerous to his own peace of mind, or even, if he is -frivolous, to the comfort of a daughter of the same, but so long as he -is on these easy terms, with no definite understanding one way or the -other, he is a pleasant addition. The least amiable of men is obliging -and pleasant in such circumstances. He is on his promotion. His <i>raison -d’être</i> is his power of making himself agreeable. When he comes to have -a definite position as an accepted lover, everything is changed again, -and he may be as much in the way as he once was handy and desirable; but -in his first stage he is always an addition, especially when the -household is chiefly composed of women. Hamerton fell into this pleasant -place with even more ease than usual. He was already so familiar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> with -them all, that everything was natural in the arrangement. And Mrs. -Lennox, there was no doubt, wished the young man well. It would not be a -brilliant match, but it would be “quite satisfactory.” Had young Lord -Elmore come a-wooing instead of Roland, that would have been, no doubt, -more exciting. But Lord Elmore paid his homage in another direction, and -his antecedents were not quite so good as Hamerton’s, who was one of -those young men who have never given their parents an anxiety—a -qualification which, it is needless to say, was dear above every other -to Aunt Sophy’s heart.</p> - -<p>He was seated with them in the drawing-room at the Elms on an afternoon -of November. It had been a day pleasant enough for the time of year, but -not for hunting men—a clear frosty day, with ice in all the ditches, -and the ground hard and resounding; a day when it is delightful to walk, -though not to ride. Rosalind had met him strolling towards the house -when she was out for her afternoon walk. Perhaps he was not so sorry for -himself as he professed to the ladies. “I shall bore you to death,” he -said; “I shall always be coming, for I see now we are in for a ten days’ -frost, which is the most dolorous prospect—at least, it would be if I -had not the Elms to fall back upon.” He made this prognostication of -evil with a beaming face.</p> - -<p>“You seem on the whole to take it cheerfully,” Mrs. Lennox said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, with the Elms to fall back upon; I should not take it cheerfully -otherwise.”</p> - -<p>“But you were here on Saturday, Roland, when the meet was at Barley -Wood, and everybody was out,” cried little Sophy. “I don’t think you are -half a hunting man. I shouldn’t miss a day if it were me; nor Reginald -wouldn’t,” she added, with much indifference to grammar.</p> - -<p>“It is all the fault of the Elms,” the young man said, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you find at the Elms. Reginald says<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> we are so dull -here. I think so too—nothing but women; and you that have got two or -three clubs and can go where you like.”</p> - -<p>“You shall go to the clubs, Sophy, instead of me.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I should like,” said Miss Sophy. “Everybody says men are -cleverer than women, and I am very fond of good talk. I like to hear you -talk of horses and things; and of betting a pot on Bucephalus—”</p> - -<p>“Sophy! where did you hear such language? You must be sent back to the -nursery,” cried Mrs. Lennox, “if you go on like that.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Sophy, “Reginald had a lot on Bucephalus: he told me so. He -says it’s dreadful fun. You are kept in such a state till the last -moment, not knowing which is to win. Sometimes the favorite is simply -nowhere, and if you happen to have drawn a dark horse—”</p> - -<p>“Sophy! I can’t allow such language.”</p> - -<p>“And the favorite has been cooked, don’t you know, or come to grief in -the stable,” cried Sophy, breathless, determined to have it out, “then -you win a pot of money! It was Reginald told me all that. I don’t know -myself, more’s the pity; and because I am a girl I don’t suppose I shall -ever know,” the little reprobate said, regretfully.</p> - -<p>“Dear me, I never thought those things were permitted at Eton,” said -Mrs. Lennox. “I always thought boys were safe there. Afterwards, one -knows, not a moment can be calculated upon. That is what is so nice -about you, Roland; you never went into anything of that kind. I wish so -much, if you are here at Christmas, you would give Reginald a little -advice.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t much believe in advice, Mrs. Lennox. Besides, I’m not so -immaculate as you think me; I’ve had in my day a pot on something or -other, as Sophy says—”</p> - -<p>“Sophy must not say those sort of things,” said her aunt. “Rosalind, -give us some tea. It is quite cold enough to make the fire most -agreeable and the tea a great comfort. And if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> you have betted you have -seen the folly of it, and you could advise him all the better. That is -always the worst with boys when they have women to deal with. They think -we know nothing. Whether it is because we have not education, or because -we have not votes, or what, I can’t tell. But Reginald for one does not -pay the least attention. He thinks he knows ever so much better than I -do. And John is abroad; he doesn’t care very much for John either. He -calls him an old fogy; he says the present generation knows better than -the last. Did you ever hear such impertinence? And he is only seventeen. -I like two lumps of sugar, Rosalind. But I thought at Eton they ought to -be safe.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are going home for Christmas, Roland? Shall you all be at -home? Alice and her baby, and every one of you?” Rosalind breathed -softly a little sigh. “I don’t like Christmas,” she said; “it is all -very well so long as you are quite young, but when you begin to get -scattered and broken up—”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I am far from being quite young, and I hope I have been -scattered as much as anybody, and had every sort of thing to put up -with, but I never grow too old or too dull for Christmas.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Aunt Sophy, you! But then you are not like anybody else; you take -things so sweetly, even Rex and his impertinence.”</p> - -<p>“Christmas is pleasant enough,” said young Hamerton. “We are not so much -scattered but that we can all get back, and I like it well enough. But,” -he added, “if one was wanted elsewhere, or could be of use, I am not -such a fanatic for home but that I could cut it once in a way, if there -was anything, don’t you know, Mrs. Lennox, that one would call a duty; -like licking a young cub into shape, or helping a—people you are fond -of.” He blushed and laughed, in the genial, confusing glow of the fire, -and cast a glance at Rosalind to see whether she noted his offer, and -understood the motive of it. “People one is fond of;” did she think that -meant Aunt Sophy?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> There was a pleasant mingling of obscurity and light -even when the cheerful flame leaped up and illuminated the room: -something in its leaping and uncertainty made a delightful shelter. You -might almost stare at the people you were fond of without being betrayed -as the cold daylight betrays you; and as for the heat which he felt -suffuse his countenance, that was altogether unmarked in the genial glow -of the cheerful fire.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> an easy house, where punctuality is not rampant, the hour before -dinner is pleasant to young people. The lady of the house is gone to -dress. If she is beginning to feel the weight of years, she perhaps -likes a nap before dinner, and in any case she will change her dress in -a leisurely manner and likes to have plenty of time; and the children -have been carried off to the nursery that their toilet may be attended -to, and no hurried call afterwards interfere with the tying of their -sashes. The young lady of the house is not moved by either of these -motives. Five minutes is enough for her, she thinks and says, and the -room is so cosey and the half light so pleasant, and it is the hour for -confidences. If she has another girl with her, they will drift into -beginnings of the most intimate narrative, which must be finished in -their own rooms after everybody has gone to bed; and if it is not a -girl, but the other kind of companion, those confidences are perhaps -even more exciting. Rosalind knew what Roland Hamerton wanted, vaguely: -she was, on the surface, not displeased with his devotions. She had no -intention of coming to so very decided a step as marriage, nor did she -for a moment contemplate him as the lover whose absence surprised her. -But he was nice enough. She liked well enough to talk to him. They were -like brother and sister, she would have said. “Roland—why, I have known -him all my life,” she would have exclaimed indignantly to any one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> who -had blamed her for “encouraging” this poor young man. Indeed, Rosalind -was so little perfect that she had already on several occasions defended -herself in this way, and had not the slightest intention of accepting -Roland, and yet allowed him to persuade her to linger and talk after -Aunt Sophy had gone up-stairs. This was quite unjustifiable, and a more -high-minded young woman would not have done it. But poor Rosalind, -though her life had been crossed by a strain of tragedy and though her -feelings were very deep and her experiences much out of the common, and -her mind capable and ready to respond to very high claims, was yet not -the ideal of a high-minded girl. It is to be hoped that she was -unacquainted with flirtation and above it, but yet she did not -dislike—so long as she could skilfully keep him from anything definite -in the way of a proposal, anything that should be compromising and -uncomfortable to sit and listen to—the vague adoration which was -implied in Hamerton’s talk, and to feel that the poor young fellow was -laying himself out to please her. It did please her, and it amused -her—which was more. It was sport to her, though it might be death to -him. She did not believe that there was anything sufficiently serious in -young Hamerton’s feelings or in his character to involve anything like -death, and she judged with some justice that he preferred the happiness -of the moment, even if it inspired him with false hopes, to the collapse -of all those hopes which a more conscientious treatment would have -brought about. Accordingly, Rosalind lingered in the pleasant twilight. -She sent her aunt’s butler, Saunders, away when he appeared to light the -lamps.</p> - -<p>“Not yet, Saunders,” she said, “we like the firelight,” in a manner -which made Roland’s heart jump. It seemed to that deceived young man -that nothing but a flattering response of sentiment in her mind would -have made Rosalind, like himself, enjoy the firelight. “That was very -sweet of you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“What was sweet of me?” The undeserved praise awakened a compunction in -her. “There is nothing good in saying what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> is true. I do like talking -by this light. Summer evenings are different, they are always a little -sad; but the fire is cheerful, and it makes people confidential.”</p> - -<p>“If I could think you wanted me to be confidential, Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I do; everybody! I like to talk about not only the outside, but -what people are really thinking of. One hears so much of the outside: -all the runs you have had, and how Captain Thornton jumps, and Miss -Plympton keeps the lead.”</p> - -<p>“If you imagine that I admire Miss Plympton—”</p> - -<p>“I never thought anything of the kind. Why shouldn’t you admire her? -Though she is a little too fond of hunting, she is a nice girl, and I -like her. And she is very pretty. You might do a great deal worse, -Roland,” said Rosalind, with maternal gravity, “than admire Ethel -Plympton. She is quite a nice girl, not only when she is on horseback. -But she would not have anything to say to you.”</p> - -<p>“That is just as well,” said the young man, “for hers is not the sort of -shrine I should ever worship at. The kind of girl I like doesn’t hunt, -though she goes like a bird when it strikes her fancy. She is the queen -at home, she makes a room like this into heaven. She makes a man feel -that there’s nothing in life half so sweet as to be by her, whatever she -is doing. She would make hard work and poverty and all that sort of -thing delightful. She is—”</p> - -<p>“A dreadful piece of perfection!” said Rosalind, with a slightly -embarrassed laugh. “Don’t you know nobody likes to have that sort of -person held up to them? One always suspects girls that are too good. But -I hope you sometimes think of other things than girls,” she added, with -an air of delightful gravity and disapproval. “I have wanted all this -long time to know what you were going to do; and to find instead only -that hyperbolical fiend, you know, that talks of nothing but ladies, is -disappointing. What would you think of me,” Rosalind continued, turning -upon him with still more imposing dignity, “if I talked to you of -nothing but gentlemen?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<p>“Rosalind!—that’s blasphemy to think of; besides that I should feel -like getting behind a hedge and shooting all of them,” the young man -cried.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is a sort of blasphemy; you would all think a girl a dreadful -creature if she did so. But you think you are different, and that it -doesn’t matter; that is what everybody says; one law for men and one for -women. But I, for one, will never give in to that. I want to know what -you are going to do.”</p> - -<p>“And suppose,” he cried, “that I were to return the question, since you -say there must not be one law for men and one for women. Rosalind, what -are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“I?” she said, and looked at him with surprise. “Alas! you know I have -my work cut out for me, Roland. I have to bring up the children; they -are very young, and it will be a great many years before they can do -without me; there is no question about me. Perhaps it is a good thing to -have your path quite clear before you, so that you can’t make any -mistake about it,” she added, with a little sigh.</p> - -<p>“But, Rosalind, that is completely out of the question, don’t you know. -Sacrifice yourself and all your life to those children—why, it would be -barbarous; nobody would permit it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Rosalind, “who has any right to interfere. You -think Uncle John, perhaps? Uncle John would never think of anything so -foolish. It is much less his business than it is mine; and you forget -that I am old enough to judge for myself.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, you can’t really intend anything so dreadful! Oh, at present -you are so young, you are all living in the same house, it does not make -so much difference. But to sacrifice yourself, to give up your own life, -to relinquish everything for a set of half—”</p> - -<p>“You had better not make me angry,” she said. He had sprung to his feet -and was pacing about in great excitement, his figure relieved against -the blaze of the fire, while she sat in the shadow at one side, -protected from the glow. “What am I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> giving up? In the first place, I -know nothing that I am giving up; and I confess that it amuses me, -Roland, to see you so excited about my life. I should like to hear what -you are going to do with your own.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you understand?” he cried, hastily and in confusion, “that the -one might—that the one might—involve perhaps—” And here the young man -stopped and looked helplessly at her, not daring to risk what he had for -the uncertainty of something better. But it was very hard, when he had -gone so far, to refrain.</p> - -<p>“Might involve perhaps— No, I can’t understand,” Rosalind said, almost -with unconcern. “What I do understand is that you can’t hunt forever if -you are going to be any good in life. And you don’t even hunt as a man -ought that means to make hunting his object. Do something, Roland, as if -you meant it!—that is what I am always telling you.”</p> - -<p>“And don’t I always tell you the same thing, that I am no hero. I can’t -hold on to an object, as you say. What do you mean by an object? I want -a happy life. I should like very well to be kind to people, and do my -duty and all that, but as for an object, Rosalind! If you expect me to -become a reformer or a philanthropist or anything of that sort, or make -a great man of myself—”</p> - -<p>Rosalind shook her head softly in her shadowed corner. “I don’t expect -that,” she said, with a tone of regret. “I might have done so, perhaps, -at one time. At first one thinks every boy can do great things, but that -is only for a little while, when one is without experience.”</p> - -<p>“You see you don’t think very much of my powers, for all you say,” he -cried, hastily, with the tone of offence which the humblest can scarcely -help assuming when taken at his own low estimate. Roland knew very well -that he had no greatness in him, but to have the fact acknowledged with -this regretful certainty was somewhat hard.</p> - -<p>“That is quite a different matter,” said Rosalind. “Only a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> few men (I -see now) can be great. I know nobody of that kind,” she added, with once -more that tone of regret, shaking her head. “But you can always do -something, not hang on amusing yourself, for that is all you ever do, so -far as I can see.”</p> - -<p>“What does your Uncle John do?” he cried; “you have a great respect for -him, and so have I; he is just the best man going. But what does he do? -He loafs about; he goes out a great deal when he is in town; he goes to -Scotland for the grouse, he goes to Homburg for his health, he comes -down and sees you, and then back to London again. Oh, I think that’s all -right, but if I am to take him for my example—and I don’t know where I -could find a better—”</p> - -<p>“There is no likeness between your case and his. Uncle John is old, he -has nothing particular given him to do; he is—well, he is Uncle John. -But you, Roland, you are just my age.”</p> - -<p>“I’m good five years older, if not more.”</p> - -<p>“What does that matter? You are my own age, or, according to all rules -of comparison between boys and girls, a little younger than me. You have -got to settle upon something. I am not like many people,” said Rosalind, -loftily; “I don’t say do this or do that; I only say, for Heaven’s sake -do something, Roland; don’t be idle all your life.”</p> - -<p>“I should not mind so much if you did say do this or do that. Tell me -something to do, Rosalind, and I’ll do it for your sake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! that is all folly; that belongs to fairy tales—a shawl that will -go through a ring, or a little dog that will go into a nutshell, or a -golden apple. They are all allegories, I suppose; the right thing, -however, is to do what is right for the sake of what is right, and not -because any one in particular tells you.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I set up in chambers, and try to get briefs?” said Roland. “But -then I have enough to live on, and half the poor beggars at the bar -haven’t; and don’t you think it would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> be taking an unfair advantage, -when I can afford to do without and they can’t, and when everybody knows -there isn’t half enough business to keep all going? I ask you, Rosalind, -do you think that would be fair?”</p> - -<p>Here the monitress paused, and did not make her usual eager reply. “I -don’t know that it is right to consider that sort of thing, Roland. You -see, it would be good for you to try for briefs, and then probably the -other men who want them more might be—cleverer than you are.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, very well,” cried Roland, who had taken a chair close to his -adviser, springing up with natural indignation; “if it is only by way of -mortification, as a moral discipline, that you want me to go in for bar -work.”</p> - -<p>She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. “Oh, no! it would only be -fair competition. Perhaps you would be cleverer than they—than <i>some</i> -of them.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a very doubtful perhaps,” he cried, with a laugh. But he was -mollified and sat down again—the touch was very conciliatory. “The -truth is,” he said, getting hold of the hand, which she withdrew very -calmly after a moment, “I am in no haste; and,” with timidity, “the -truth is, Rosalind, that I shall never do work anyhow by myself. If I -had some one with me to stir me up and keep me going, and if I knew it -was for her interest as well as for my own—”</p> - -<p>“You mean if you were to marry?” said Rosalind, in a matter-of-fact -tone, rising from her chair. “I don’t approve of a man who always has to -be stirred up by his wife; but marry by all means, Roland, if you think -that is the best way. Nobody would have the least objection; in short, I -am sure all your best friends would like it, and I, for one, would give -her the warmest welcome. But still I should prefer, you know, first to -see you acting for yourself. Why, there is the quarter chiming, and I -promised to let Saunders know when we went to dress. Aunt Sophy will be -down-stairs directly. Ring the bell, and let us run; we shall be late -again. But the firelight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> is so pleasant.” She disappeared out of the -room before she had done speaking, flying up-stairs to escape the -inevitable response, and left poor Roland, tantalized and troubled, to -meet the gloomy looks of Saunders, who reminded him that there was but -twelve minutes and a half to dress in, and that Mrs. Lennox was very -particular about the fish. Saunders took liberties with the younger -visitors, and he too had known young Mr. Hamerton all his life.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not on that day, but the next, that Uncle John arrived so -suddenly, bringing with him the friend whom he had picked up in -Switzerland. This was a man still young, but not so young as Roland -Hamerton, with looks a little worn, as of a man who had been, as he -himself said, “knocking about the world.” Perhaps, indeed, they all -thought afterwards, it was his dress which suggested this idea; for when -he appeared dressed for the evening he turned out in reality a handsome -man, with the very effective contrast of hair already gray, waving -upwards from a countenance not old enough to justify that change, and -lighted up with dark eyes full of light and humor and life. The hair -which had changed its color so early had evidently been very dark in his -youth, and Mrs. Lennox, who was always a little romantic, could not help -suggesting, when Rosalind and she awaited the gentlemen in the -drawing-room after dinner, that Mr. Rivers might be an example of one of -the favorite devices of fiction, the turning gray in a single night, -which is a possibility of which every one has heard. “I should not -wonder if he has had a very remarkable life,” Aunt Sophy said. “No doubt -the servants and common people think him quite old, but when you look -into it, it is a young face.” She took her chair by the fireside, and -arranged all her little paraphernalia, and unfolded her crewel-work, and -had done quite half a leaf before she burst forth again, as if without -any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> interval, “though full of lines, and what you might call wrinkles -if you did not know better! In my young days such a man would have been -thought like Lara or Conrad, or one of Byron’s other heroes. I don’t -know who to compare him to nowadays, for men of that sort are quite out -of fashion; but he is quite a hero, I have a conviction, and saved -John’s life.”</p> - -<p>“He says Uncle John was in no danger, and that he did nothing that a -guide or a servant might not have done.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Aunt Sophy, “that is what they always say; the more they -do the less they will give in to it.”</p> - -<p>“To call that old man like the Wandering Jew a hero!” said little Sophy. -“Yes, I have seen him. I saw him arrive with Uncle John. He looked quite -old and shabby; oh, not a bit like Lara, whose hair was jet-black, and -who scowled when he looked at you.”</p> - -<p>“Why, how can you tell, you little— Rosalind, I am afraid Miss Robinson -must be romantic, for Sophy knows—oh, a great deal more than a little -girl ought to know.”</p> - -<p>“It was in your room that I found ‘Lara,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> said Sophy, “and the -‘Corsair’ too; I have read them all. Oh, Miss Robinson never reads them; -she reads little good books where everybody dies. I do not admire Mr. -Rivers at all, and if Uncle John should intend to give him one of us -because he has saved his life, I hope it will not be me.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy, I shall send you to bed if you talk so. Give him one of you! I -suppose you think you are in a fairy tale. Mr. Rivers would laugh if you -were offered to him. He would think it was a curious reward.”</p> - -<p>“He might like Rosalind better, perhaps, now, but Rosalind has gone off, -Aunt Sophy. Ferriss says so. She is getting rather old. Don’t you know -she is in her twenty-first year?”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind! why, I never saw her looking better in her life. Ferriss -shall be sent away if she talks such impertinence. And she is just -twenty! Going off! she is not the least going off: her complexion is -just beautiful, and so fresh. I don’t know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> what you mean, you or -Ferriss either!” Mrs. Lennox cried. She had always a little inclination -to believe what was suggested to her; and, notwithstanding the complete -assurance of her words, she followed Rosalind, who was moving about at -the other end of the room, with eyes that were full of sudden alarm.</p> - -<p>“And I am in my thirteenth year,” said Sophy; “it sounds much better -than to say only twelve. I shall improve, but Rosalind will not improve. -If he were sensible, he would like me best.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t let your sister hear you talk such nonsense, Sophy: and remember -that I forbid you to read the books in my room without asking me first. -There are things that are very suitable for me, or even for Rosalind, -but not for you. And what are you doing down-stairs at this hour, Sophy? -I did not remember the hour, but it is past your bedtime. Miss Robinson -should not let you have so much of your own way.”</p> - -<p>“It was because of Uncle John,” said Rosalind. “What has she been saying -about Lara and the Corsair? I could not hear, Saunders made so much -noise with the tea. Here is your tea, Aunt Sophy, though you know Dr. -Beaton says you ought not to take it after dinner, and that it keeps you -from sleeping.”</p> - -<p>“Dr. Beaton goes upon the new-fashioned rules, my dear,” said Mrs. -Lennox. “It never keeps me from my sleep; nothing does that, thank God. -It is the young people that are so delicate nowadays, that can’t take -this and that. I wonder if John has any news of Dr. Beaton. He had a -great many fads like that about the tea, but he was very nice. What a -comfort he was to poor Reginald, and took so much anxiety off Gra—”</p> - -<p>“I declare,” Aunt Sophy cried, coloring and coughing, “I have caught -cold, though I have not been out of the house since the cold weather set -in. My dear, I am so sorry,” she added in an undertone; “I know I should -not have said a word—”</p> - -<p>“I have never been of that opinion,” said Rosalind, shaking her head -sadly. “I think you are all taking the wrong way.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<p>“For Heaven’s sake don’t say a word, Rosalind; with John coming in, and -that little thing with ears as sharp—”</p> - -<p>“Is it me that have ears so sharp, Aunt Sophy? It is funny to hear you -talk. You think I don’t know anything, but I know everything. I know why -Roland Hamerton is always coming here; and I know why Mr. Blake never -comes, but only the old gentleman. And, Rosalind, you had better make up -your mind and take some one, for you are getting quite <i>passée</i>, and you -will soon be an old maid.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy! if you insult your sister—”</p> - -<p>“Do you think that is insulting me?” Rosalind said. “I believe I shall -be an old maid. That would suit me best, and it would be best for the -children, who will want me for a long time.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Aunt Sophy, solemnly, “there are some things I will -never consent to, and one of them is, a girl like you making such a -sacrifice. That is what I will never give in to. Oh, go away, Sophy, you -are a perfect nuisance! No, no, I will never give in to it. For such a -sacrifice is always repented of. When the children grow up they will not -be a bit grateful to you; they will never think it was for them you did -it. They will talk of you as if it was something laughable, and as if -you could not help it. An old maid! Yes, it is intended for an insult, -and I won’t have it, any more than I will have you do it, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John,” cried the <i>enfant terrible</i>, “there is Aunt Sophy with -tears in her eyes because I said Rosalind was going to be an old maid. -But it is not anything so very dreadful, is it? Why, Uncle John, you are -an old maid.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Rosalind’s prospects need distress you, Sophy,” said -Uncle John. “We can take care of her in any case. She will not want your -valuable protection.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I was not thinking of myself; I don’t mind at all,” said Sophy; -“but only she is getting rather old. Don’t you see a great difference, -Uncle John? She is in her twenty-first year.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<p>“I shall not lose hope till she has completed her thirty-third,” said -Uncle John. “You may run away, Sophy; you are young enough, fortunately, -to be sent to bed.”</p> - -<p>“I am in my thirteenth,” said Sophy, resisting every step of her way to -the door, dancing in front of her uncle, who was directing her towards -it. When Sophy found that resistance was vain, she tried entreaty.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John, don’t send me away! Rosalind promised I should sit up -to-night because you were coming home.”</p> - -<p>“Then Rosalind must take the consequences,” said John Trevanion. All -this time the stranger had been standing silent, with a slight smile on -his face, watching the whole party, and forming those unconscious -conclusions with which we settle everybody’s character and qualities -when we come into a new place. This little skirmish was all in his -favor, as helping him to a comprehension of the situation; the saucy -child, the indulgent old aunt, the disapproving guardian, of whom alone -Sophy was a little afraid, made a simple group enough. But when he -turned to the subject of the little disturbance, he found in Rosalind’s -smile a curious light thrown upon the altercation. Was she in real -danger of becoming an old maid? He thought her looking older than the -child had said, a more gracious and perfect woman than was likely to be -the subject of such a controversy; and he saw, by the eager look and -unnecessary indignation of Hamerton, sufficient evidence that the fate -of the elder sister was by no means so certain as Sophy thought, and -that, at all events, it was in her own hands. The young fellow had -seemed to Mr. Rivers a pleasant young fellow enough in the after-dinner -talk, but when he thus involuntarily coupled him with Rosalind, his -opinion changed in a curious way. The young man was not good enough for -her. A touch of indignation mingled, he could not tell why, in this -conclusion; indignation against unconscious Roland, who aspired to one -so much above him, and at the family who were so little aware that this -girl was the only one of them the least remarkable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> He smiled at -himself afterwards for the earnestness with which he decided all this; -settling the character of people whom he had never seen before in so -unjustifiable a fashion. The little new world thus revealed to him had -nothing very novel in it. The only interesting figure was the girl who -was in her twenty-first year. She was good enough for the heroine of a -romance of a higher order than any that could be involved in the mild -passion of young Hamerton; and it pleased the stranger to think, from -the unconcerned way in which Rosalind looked at her admirer, that she -was evidently of this opinion too.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind,” said John Trevanion, after the episode of Sophy was over, -and she was safely dismissed to bed, “will you show Rivers the -miniatures? He is a tremendous authority on art.”</p> - -<p>“Bring the little lamp then, Uncle John; there is not light enough. We -are very proud of them ourselves, but if Mr. Rivers is a great -authority, perhaps they will not please him so much.”</p> - -<p>She took up the lamp herself as she spoke, and its light gave a soft -illumination to her face, looking up at him with a smile. It was certain -that there was nothing so interesting here as she was. The miniatures! -well, yes, they were not bad miniatures. He suggested a name as the -painter of the best among them which pleased John Trevanion, and fixed -the date in a way which fell in entirely with family traditions. Perhaps -he would not have been so gracious had the exhibitor been less -interesting. He took the lamp, which she had insisted upon holding, out -of her hand when the inspection was done, and set it down upon a table -which was at some distance from the fireside group. It was a -writing-table, with indications upon it of the special ownership of -Rosalind. But this he could not be supposed to know. He thought it would -be pleasant, however, to detain her here in conversation, apart from the -others who were so much more ordinary, for he was a man who liked to -appropriate to himself the best of everything. And fortune favored<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> his -endeavors. As he put down the lamp his eye was caught by a photograph -framed in a sort of shrine, which stood upon the table. The doors of the -little shrine were open, and he stooped to look at the face within, at -the sight of which he uttered an exclamation. “I know that lady very -well,” he said.</p> - -<p>In a moment the courteous attention which Rosalind had been giving him -turned into eager interest. She made a hurried step forward, clasped her -hands together, and raised to him eyes which all at once had filled with -sudden tragic meaning, anxiety, and suspense. If there had seemed to him -before much more in her than in any of the others, there was a -hundredfold more now. He seemed in a moment to have got at the very -springs of her life. “Oh, where, where have you seen her? When did you -see her? Tell me all you know,” Rosalind cried. She turned to him, -betraying in her every gesture an excess of suddenly awakened feeling, -and waited breathless, repeating her inquiry with her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I was afraid, from the way in which her portrait was framed, that -perhaps she was no longer—”</p> - -<p>Rosalind gave a low cry, following the very movements of his lips with -her eager eyes. Then she exclaimed, “No, no, she must be living, or we -should have heard.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Rosalind?” said John Trevanion, looking somewhat pale and -anxious too, as he turned round to join them.</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, Mr. Rivers knows her. He is going to tell me something.”</p> - -<p>“But really I have nothing to tell, Miss Trevanion. I fear I have -excited your interest on false pretences. It is such an interesting -face—so beautiful in its way.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes.”</p> - -<p>“I met the lady last year in Spain. I cannot say that I know her, though -I said so in the surprise of the moment. One could not see her without -being struck with her appearance.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes!” Rosalind cried again, eagerly, with her eyes demanding -more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<p>“I met her several times. They were travelling out of the usual routes. -I have exchanged a few chance words with her at the door of a hotel, or -on the road, changing horses. I am sorry to say that was all, Miss -Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>“Last year; that is later than we have heard. And was she well? Was she -very sad? Did she say anything? But, oh, how could she say anything? for -she could not tell,” cried Rosalind, her eyes filling, “that you were -coming here.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Rosalind. You say <i>they</i>, Rivers. She was not alone, then?”</p> - -<p>“Alone? oh, no, there was a man with her. I never could,” said Rivers, -lightly, “make out who he was—more like a son or brother than her -husband. But, to be sure, you who know the lady—”</p> - -<p>He paused, entirely unable to account for the effect he had produced. -Rosalind had grown as pale as marble; her mouth quivered, her hands -trembled. She gave him the most pathetic, reproachful look, as a woman -might have done whom he had stabbed unawares, and, getting up quickly -from his side, went away with an unsteady, wavering movement, as if it -were all her strength could do to get out of the room. Hamerton rushed -forward to open the door for her, but he was too late, and he too came -to look at Rivers with inquiring, indignant looks, as if to say, What -have you done to her? “What have I done—what is wrong, Trevanion? Have -I said anything I ought not to have said?” Rivers cried.</p> - -<p>The only answer John Trevanion made was to drop down upon the seat -Rosalind had left, with a suppressed groan, and to cover his face with -his hands.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rosalind</span> came down to breakfast next morning at the usual hour. She was -the most important member of the household<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> party, and everything -depended upon her. Sometimes Aunt Sophy would have a little cold and did -not appear. She considered it was her right to take her leisure in the -mornings; but Rosalind was like the mother of the young ones, and -indispensable. Rivers had come down early, which is an indiscreet thing -for a stranger to do in a house with which he is unacquainted. He felt -this when Rosalind came into the breakfast-room, and found Sophy, full -of excitement and delight in thus taking the most important place, -entertaining him. He thought Rosalind looked at him with a sort of -question in her eyes, which she turned away the next moment; but -afterwards put force upon herself and came up to him, bidding him -good-morning. He was so much interested that he felt he could follow the -processes in her mind; that she reproved herself for her distaste to -him, and said within herself, it is no fault of his. He did not yet at -all know what he had done, but conjectured that the woman whose -photograph was on Rosalind’s table must be some dear friend or relation -who had either made an imprudent marriage, or, still worse, “gone -wrong.” It was the mention of the man who had been with her which had -done all the mischief. He wished that he had bitten his tongue rather -than made that unfortunate disclosure, which evidently had plunged them -into trouble. But then, how was he to know? As for Rosalind, her pain -was increased and complicated by finding this new visitor with the -children; Sophy, her eyes dancing with excitement and pleasure, doing -her utmost to entertain him. Sophy had that complete insensibility which -is sometimes to be seen in a clever child whose satisfaction with her -own cleverness overbalances all feeling. She was just as likely as not -to have poured forth all the family history into this new-comer’s ears; -to have let him know that mamma had gone away when papa died, and that -nobody knew where she had gone. This gave Rosalind an additional alarm, -but overcame her repugnance to address the stranger who had brought news -so painful, for it was better at once to check Sophy’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> revelations, -whatever they might have been. That lively little person turned -immediately upon her sister, knowing by instinct that her moment of -importance was over. “What a ghost you do look, Rosie!” she cried; “you -look as if you had been crying. Just as I do when Miss Robinson is -nasty. But nobody can scold you except Aunt Sophy, and she never does; -though—oh, I forgot, there is Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Robinson will be here before you are ready for her, Sophy,” said -Rosalind. “I fear I am a little late. Has she been giving you the <i>carte -du pays</i>, Mr. Rivers? She is more fond of criticism than little girls -should be.”</p> - -<p>“I have had a few sketches of the neighborhood,” he answered quickly, -divining her fears. “She is an excellent mimic, I should suppose, but it -is rather a dangerous quality. If you take me off, Miss Sophy, as you -take off the old ladies, I shall not enjoy it.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was relieved, he could see. She gave him a look that was almost -grateful as she poured out his coffee, though he had done nothing to -call forth her gratitude, any more than he had done anything last night -to occasion her sorrow. A stranger in a new household, of which he has -heard nothing before, being introduced into it, is like an explorer in -an unknown country; he does not know when he may find himself on -forbidden ground, or intruding into religious mysteries. He began to -talk of himself, which seemed the safest subject; it was one which he -was not eager to launch upon, but yet which had come in handy on many -previous occasions. His life had been full of adventures. There were a -hundred things in it to tell, and it had delivered him from many a -temporary embarrassment to introduce a chapter out of his varied -experiences. He had shot elephants in Africa and tigers in India. He had -been a war-correspondent in the height of every military movement. “I -have been one of the rolling stones that gather no moss,” he said, -“though it is a kind of moss to have so many stories to tell. If the -worst comes to the worst, I can go from house to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> house and amuse the -children.” He did it so skilfully that Rosalind felt her agitation -calmed. A man who could fall so easily into this narrative vein, and who -was, apparently, so full of his own affairs, would not think twice, she -reflected, of such a trifling incident as that of last night. If she had -judged more truly, she would perhaps have seen that the observer who -thus dismissed the incident totally, with such an absence of all -consciousness on the subject, was precisely the one most likely to have -perceived, even if he did not understand how, that it was an incident of -great importance. But Rosalind was not sufficiently learned in moral -philosophy to have found out that.</p> - -<p>Her feelings were not so carefully respected by Roland Hamerton, who -would have given everything he had in the world to please her, but yet -was not capable of perceiving what, in this matter at least, was the -right way to do so. He had, though he was not one of the group round the -writing-table, heard enough to understand what had happened on the -previous night, solely, it would seem, by that strange law which -prevails in human affairs, by which the obstacles of distance and the -rules of acoustics are set aside as soon as something is going on which -it is undesirable for the spectators to hear. In this way Hamerton had -made out what it was; that Madam had been seen by the stranger, -travelling with a man. Rosalind’s sudden departure from the room, her -face of anguish, the speed with which she disappeared, and the confused -looks of those whom she thus hastily left, roused young Hamerton to -something like the agitation into which he had been plunged by the -incidents of that evening, now so long past, when Madam Trevanion had -appeared in the drawing-room at Highcourt with that guilty witness of -her nocturnal expedition clinging to her dress. He had been then almost -beside himself with the painful nature of the discovery which he had -made. What should he do—keep the knowledge to himself, or communicate -it to those who had a right to know? Roland was so unaccustomed to deal -with difficulties of this kind that he had felt it profoundly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> and at -the end had held his peace, rather because it was the easiest thing to -do than from any better reason. It returned to his mind now, with all -the original trouble and perception of a duty which he could not define. -Here was Rosalind, the most perfect, the sweetest, the girl whom he -loved, wasting her best affections upon a woman who was unworthy of -them; standing by her, defending her, insisting even upon respect and -honor for her—and suffering absolute anguish, such as he had seen last -night, when the veil was lifted for a moment from that mysterious -darkness of intrigue and shame into which she had disappeared. If she -only knew and could be convinced that Madam had been unworthy all the -time, would not that deliver her? Roland thought that he was able to -prove this; he had never wavered in his own judgment. All his admiration -and regard for Mrs. Trevanion had been killed at a blow by the shock he -had received, by what he had seen. He could not bear to think that such -a woman should retain Rosalind’s affection. And he thought he had it in -his power to convince Rosalind, to make her see everything in its true -light. This conviction was not come to without pain. The idea of opening -such a subject at all, of speaking of what was impure and vile in -Rosalind’s hearing, of looking in her eyes, which knew no evil, and -telling her such a tale, was terrible to the young man. But yet he -thought it ought to be done. Certainly it ought to be done. Had she seen -what he had seen, did she know what he knew, she would give up at once -that championship which she had held so warmly. It had always been told -him that though men might forgive a woman who had fallen, no woman ever -did so; and how must an innocent girl, ignorant, incredulous of all -evil, feel towards one who had thus sinned? What could she do but flee -from her in terror, in horror, with a condemnation which would be all -the more relentless, remorseless, from her own incapacity to understand -either the sin or the temptation? But no doubt it would be a terrible -shock to Rosalind. This was the only thing that held<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> him back. It would -be a blow which would shake the very foundations of her being: for she -could not suspect, she could not even know of what Madam was suspected, -or she would never stand by her so. Now, however, that her peace had -been disturbed by this chance incident, there was a favorable -opportunity for Roland. It was his duty now, he thought, to strike to -the root of her fallacy. It was better for her that she should be -entirely undeceived.</p> - -<p>Thinking about this, turning it over and over in his mind, had cost him -almost his night’s rest: not altogether. If the world itself had gone to -pieces, Roland would still have got a few hours’ repose. He allowed to -himself that he had got a few hours, but, as a matter of fact, he had -been thinking of this the last thing when he went to sleep, and it was -the first thing that occurred to him when he awoke. The frost had given -way, but he said to himself that he would not hunt that day. He would go -on to the Elms; he would manage somehow to see Rosalind by herself, and -he would have it out. If in her pain her heart was softened, and she was -disposed to turn to him for sympathy, then he could have it all out, and -so get a little advantage out of his anxiety for her good. Indeed, she -had snubbed him yesterday and made believe that she did not know who it -was he wanted for his companion and guide; but that was nothing. Girls -did so, he had often heard—staved off a proposal when they knew it was -coming, even though they did not mean to reject it when it came. That -was nothing. But when she was in trouble, when her heart was moved, who -could say that she would not cling to him for sympathy? And there was -nobody that could sympathize with her as he could. He pictured to -himself how he would draw her close to him, and bid her cry as much as -she liked on his faithful bosom. That faithful bosom heaved with a -delicious throb. He would not mind her crying; she might cry us long as -she pleased—there.</p> - -<p>And, as it happened, by a chance which seemed to Roland<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> providential, -he found Rosalind alone when he entered the drawing-room at the Elms. -Mrs. Lennox had taken Sophy with her in the carriage to the dentist at -Clifton; Roland felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that Sophy, that -little imp of mischief, was going to have a tooth drawn. The gentlemen -were out, and Miss Rosalind was alone. Roland could have hugged Saunders -for this information; he gave him a sovereign, which pleased the worthy -man much better, and flew three steps at a time up-stairs. Rosalind was -seated by her writing-table. It subdued him at once to see her attitude. -She had been crying already. She had not waited for the faithful bosom. -And he thought that when she was disturbed by the opening of the door, -she had closed the little gates of that carved shrine in which Madam’s -picture dwelt; otherwise she did not move when she saw who her visitor -was, but nodded to him, with relief, he thought. “Is it you, Roland? I -thought you were sure to be out to-day,” she said.</p> - -<p>“No, I didn’t go out. I hadn’t the heart.” He came and sat down by her -where she had made Rivers sit the previous night; she looked up at him -with a little surprise.</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t the heart! What is the matter, Roland? Have you had bad news—is -there anything wrong at home?”</p> - -<p>“No—nothing about my people. Rosalind, I haven’t slept a wink all -night”—which was exaggeration, the reader knows—“thinking about you.”</p> - -<p>“About me!” She smiled, then blushed a little, and then made an attempt -to recover the composure with which yesterday she had so calmly ignored -his attempts at love-making. “I don’t see why you should lose your sleep -about me; was it a little toothache—perhaps neuralgia? I know you are -sometimes subject to that.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind,” he said, solemnly, “you must not laugh at me to-day. It is -nothing to laugh at. I could not help hearing what that fellow said last -night.”</p> - -<p>The color ebbed away out of Rosalind’s face, but not the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> courage. -“Yes!” she said, half affirmation, half interrogation; “that he had met -mamma abroad.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t bear to hear you call her mamma. And it almost killed you to -hear what he said.”</p> - -<p>She did not make any attempt to defend herself, but grew whiter, as if -she would faint, and her mouth quivered again. “Well,” she said, “I do -not deny that—that I was startled. Her dear name, that alone is enough -to agitate me, and to hear of her like that without warning, in a -moment.”</p> - -<p>The tears rose to her eyes, but she still looked him in the face, though -she scarcely saw him through that mist.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said again—she took some time to master herself before she -was able to speak—“if I did feel it very much, that was not wonderful. -I was taken by surprise. For the first moment, just in the confusion, -knowing what wickedness people think, I—I—lost heart altogether. It -was too dreadful and miserable, but I was not very well, I suppose. I am -not going to shirk it at all, Roland. She was travelling with a -gentleman—well! and what then?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind!” he cried, with a sort of horror, “after that, can you -stand up for her still?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what there is to stand up for. My mother is not a girl -like me. She is the best judge of what is right. When I had time to -think, that became a matter of course, as plain as daylight.”</p> - -<p>“And you don’t mind?” he said.</p> - -<p>She turned upon him something of the same look which she had cast on -Rivers, a look of anguish and pathos, reproachful, yet with a sort of -tremulous smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind,” he cried, “I can’t bear to look at you like that. I -can’t bear to see you so deceived. I’ll tell you what I saw myself. -Nobody was more fond of Madam than I. I’d have gone to the stake for -her. But that night—that night, if you remember, when the thorn was -hanging to her dress, I had gone away into the conservatory because I -couldn’t bear to hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> your father going on. Rosalind, just hear out -what I have got to say. And there I saw—oh, saw! with my own eyes— I -saw her standing—with a man— I saw them part, he going away into the -shadow of the shrubbery, she—Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>She had risen up, and stood towering (as he felt) over him, as if she -had grown to double her height in a moment. “Do you tell me this,” she -said, steadying herself with an effort, moistening her lips between her -words to be able to speak—“do you tell me this to make me love you, or -hate you?”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, to undeceive you, that you may know the truth.”</p> - -<p>“Go away!” she said. She pointed with her arm to the door. “Go away! It -is not the truth. If it were the truth, I should never forgive you, I -should never speak to you again. But it is not the truth. Go away!”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>“Must I put you out,” she cried, in the passion which now and then -overcame her, stamping her foot upon the floor, “with my own hands?”</p> - -<p>Alas! he carried the faithful bosom which was of no use to her to cry -upon, but which throbbed with pain and trouble all the same, out of -doors. He was utterly cowed and subdued, not understanding her, nor -himself, nor what had happened. It was the truth, she might deny it as -she pleased; he had meant it for the best. But now he had done for -himself, that was evident. And perhaps, after all, he was a cad to tell.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Arthur Rivers</span> had come to Clifton not to visit a new friend, but to see -his own family, who lived there. They were not, perhaps, quite on the -same level as the Trevanions and Mrs. Lennox, who did not know them. And -so it came to pass that, after the few days which he passed at the Elms, -and in which he did everything he could to obliterate the recollection<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> -of that first unfortunate reference on the night of his arrival, he was -for some time in the neighborhood without seeing much of them. To the -mistress of the house at least this was agreeable, and a relief. She -had, indeed, taken so strong a step as to remonstrate with her brother -on the subject.</p> - -<p>“I am not quite sure that it was judicious to bring a man like that, so -amusing and nice to talk to, into the company of a girl like Rosalind, -without knowing who his people were,” Mrs. Lennox said. “I don’t like -making a fuss, but it was not judicious—not quite judicious,” she -added, faltering a little as she felt the influence of John’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“What does it matter to us who his people are?” said John Trevanion -(which was so like a man, Mrs. Lennox said to herself). “He is himself a -capital fellow, and I am under obligations to him; and as for -Rosalind—Rosalind is not likely to be fascinated by a man of that age; -and, besides, if there had ever been any chance of that, he completely -put his foot into it the first night.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” said Aunt Sophy, doubtfully. “Now you know you all -laugh at Mrs. Malaprop and her sayings. But I have always thought there -was a great deal of good sense in one of them, and that is when she -speaks of people beginning with a little aversion. Oh, you may smile, -but it’s true. It is far better than being indifferent. Rosalind will -think a great deal more of the man because he made her very angry. And, -as he showed after that, he could make himself exceedingly pleasant.”</p> - -<p>“He did not make her angry.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I thought you said he did. Something about poor Grace—that he met -her and thought badly of her—or something. I shall take an opportunity -when he calls to question him myself. I dare say he will tell me more.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, unless you wish to distress me very much, Sophy; I would rather -not hear anything about her, nor take him into our family secrets.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<p>“Do you think not, John? Oh, of course I will do nothing to displease -you. Perhaps, on the whole, indeed, it will be better not to have him -come here any more on account of Rosalind, for of course his people—”</p> - -<p>“Who are his people?—he is a man of education himself. I don’t see why -we should take it to heart whatever his people may be.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, there is a brother a doctor, I believe, and somebody who is a -schoolmaster, and the mother and sister, who live in—quite a little -out-of-the-way place.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you must mean a green-grocer,” said John. “Let him alone, -Sophy, that is the best way; everything of the kind is best left to -nature. I shall be very happy to see him if he comes, and I will not -break my heart if he doesn’t come. It is always most easy, and generally -best, to let things alone.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you think so, John.” There was a little hesitation in Mrs. -Lennox’s tone, but it was not in her to enforce a contrary view. And as -it was a point he insisted upon that nothing should be said to Rosalind -on the subject, that, too, was complied with. It was not, indeed, a -subject on which Mrs. Lennox desired to tackle Rosalind. She had herself -the greatest difficulty in refraining from all discussion of poor Grace, -but she never cared to discuss her with Rosalind, who maintained Mrs. -Trevanion’s cause with an impetuosity which confused all her aunt’s -ideas. She could not hold her own opinion against professions of faith -so strenuously made; and yet she did hold it in a wavering way, yielding -to Rosalind’s vehemence for the moment, only to resume her own -convictions with much shaking of her head when she was by herself. It -was difficult for her to maintain her first opinion on the subject of -Mr. Rivers and his people. When he called he made himself so agreeable -that Mrs. Lennox could not restrain the invitation that rushed to her -lips. “John will be so sorry that he has missed you; won’t you come and -dine with us on Saturday?” she said, before she could remember that it -was not desirable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> he should be encouraged to come to the house. And -Rosalind had been so grateful to him for never returning to the subject -of the photograph, or seeming to remember anything about it, that his -natural attraction was rather increased than diminished to her by that -incident. There were few men in the neighborhood who talked like Mr. -Rivers. He knew everybody, he had been everywhere. Sometimes, when he -talked of the beautiful places he had seen, Rosalind was moved by a -thrill of expectation; she waited almost breathless for a mention of -Spain, for something that would recall to him the interrupted -conversation of the first evening. But he kept religiously apart from -every mention of Spain. He passed by the writing-table upon which the -shrine in which the portrait was enclosed stood, now always shut, -without so much as a glance which betrayed any association with it, any -recollection. Thank Heaven, he had forgotten all that, it had passed -from his mind as a mere trivial accident without importance. She was -satisfied, yet disappointed, too. But it never occurred to Rosalind that -this scrupulous silence meant that Rivers had by no means forgotten; and -he was instantly conscious that the portrait was covered; he lost -nothing of these details. Though the story had faded out of the -recollection of the Clifton people, to whom it had never been well -known, he did not fail to discover something of the facts of the case; -and, perhaps, it was the existence of a mystery which led him back to -the Elms, and induced him to accept Mrs. Lennox’s invitation to come on -Saturday. This fact lessened the distance between the beautiful young -Miss Trevanion, and the man whose “people” were not at all on the -Highcourt level. He had thought at first that it would be his best -policy to take himself away and see as little as might be of Rosalind. -But when he heard that there was “some story about the mother,” he -ceased to feel the necessity for so much self-denial. When there is a -story about a mother it does the daughter harm socially; and Rivers was -not specially diffident about his own personal claims. The disadvantage -on his side of having “people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span>” who were not in society was neutralized -on hers by having a mother who had been talked of. Neither of these -facts harmed the individual. He, Arthur Rivers, was not less of a -personage in his own right because his mother lived in a small street in -Clifton and was nobody; and she, Rosalind Trevanion, was not less -delightful because her mother had been breathed upon by scandal; but the -drawback on her side brought them upon something like an equality, and -did away with the drawback on his, which was not so great a drawback. -This, at least, was how he reasoned. He did not even know that the lady -about whom there was a story was not Rosalind’s mother, and he could not -make up his mind whether it was possible that the lady whom he had -recognized could be that mother. But after he had turned the whole -matter over in his mind, after a week had elapsed, and he had considered -it from every point of view, he went over to the Elms and called. This -was the result of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>It must not be concluded from these reflections that he had fallen in -love at first sight, according to a mode which has gone out of fashion. -He had not, perhaps, gone so far as that. He was a man of his time, and -took no such plunges into the unseen. But Rosalind Trevanion had -somewhat suddenly detached herself from all other images when he came, -after years of wandering, into the kind of easy acquaintance with her -which is produced by living, even if it is only from Saturday to Monday, -in the same house. He had met all kinds of women of the world, old and -young—some of them quite young, younger than Rosalind—in the spheres -which he had frequented most; but not any that were so fresh, so -maidenly, so full of charm, and yet so little artificial; no child, but -a woman, and yet without a touch of that knowledge which stains the -thoughts. This was what had caught his attention amid the simple but -conventional circumstances that surrounded her. Innocence is sometimes a -little silly; or so, at least, this man of the world thought. But -Rosalind understood as quickly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> and had as much intelligence in her -eyes, as any of his former acquaintances, and yet was as entirely -without any evil knowledge as a child. It had startled him strangely to -meet that look of hers, so pathetic, so reproachful, though he did not -know why. Something deeper still was in that look; it was the look an -angel might have given to one who drew his attention to a guilt or a -misery from which he could give no deliverance. The shame of the -discovery, the anguish of it, the regret and heart-breaking pity, all -these shone in Rosalind’s eyes. He had never been able to forget that -look. And he could not get her out of his mind, do what he would. No, it -was not falling in love; for he was quite cool and able to think over -the question whether, as she was much younger, better off, and of more -important connections than himself, he had not better go away and see -her no more. He took this fully into consideration from every point of -view, reflecting that the impression made upon him was slight as yet and -might be wiped out, whereas if he remained at Clifton and visited the -Elms it might become more serious, and lead him further than it would be -prudent to go. But if there was a story about the mother—if it was -possible that the mother might be wandering over Europe in the equivocal -company of some adventurer—this was an argument which might prevent any -young dukes from “coming forward,” and might make a man who was not a -duke, nor of any lofty lineage, more likely to be received on his own -standing.</p> - -<p>This course of thought took him some time, as we have said, during which -his mother, a simple woman who was very proud of him, could not think -why Arthur should be so slow to keep up with “his friends the -Trevanions,” who ranked among the county people, and were quite out of -her humble range. She said to her daughter that it was silly of Arthur. -“He thinks nothing of them because he is used to the very first society -both in London and abroad,” she said. “But he ought to remember that -Clifton is different, and they are quite the best<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> people here.” “Why -don’t you go and see your fine friends?” she said to her son. “Oh, no, -Arthur, I am not foolish; I don’t expect Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion -to visit me and the girls; I think myself just as good in my way, but of -course there is a difference; not for you though, Arthur, who have met -the Prince of Wales and know everybody— I think it is your duty to keep -them up.” At this he laughed, saying nothing, but thought all the more; -and at last, at the end of a week, he came round to his mother’s -opinion, and made up his mind that, if not his duty, it was at least a -reasonable and not imprudent indulgence. And upon this argument he -called, and was invited on the spot by Mrs. Lennox, who had just been -saying how imprudent it was of John to have brought him to the house, to -come and dine on Saturday. Thus things which have never appeared -possible come about.</p> - -<p>He went on Saturday and dined, and as a bitter frost had come on, and -all the higher world of the neighborhood was coming on Monday to the -pond near the Elms to skate, if the frost held, was invited for that -too; and went, and was introduced to a great many people, and made -himself quite a reputation before the day was over. There never had been -a more successful <i>début</i> in society. And a <i>Times’</i> Correspondent! -Nobody cared who was his father or what his family; he had enough in -himself to gain admittance everywhere. And he had a distinguished look, -with his gray hair and bright eyes, far more than the ordinary man of -his age who is beginning to get rusty, or perhaps bald, which is not -becoming. Mr. Rivers’s hair was abundant and full of curl; there was no -sign of age in his handsome face and vigorous figure, which made the -whiteness of his locks <i>piquant</i>. Indeed, there was no one about, none -of the great county gentlemen, who looked so imposing. Rosalind, half -afraid of him, half drawn towards him, because, notwithstanding the -dreadful disclosure he had made, he had admired and remembered the woman -whom she loved, and more than half grateful to him for never having -touched on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> the subject again, was half proud now of the notice he -attracted, and because he more or less belonged to her party. She was -pleased that he should keep by her side and manifestly devote himself to -her. Thus it happened that she ceased to ask herself the question which -has been referred to in previous pages, and began to think that the -novels were right, after all, and that the commodity in which they dealt -so largely did fall to every woman’s lot.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Roland Hamerton</span> was not one of those on whom Mr. Rivers made this -favorable impression. He would fain indeed have found something against -him, something which would have justified him in stigmatizing as a -“cad,” or setting down as full of conceit, the new-comer about whom -everybody was infatuated. Roland was not shabby enough to make capital -out of the lowliness of Arthur’s connections, though the temptation to -do so crossed his mind more than once; but the young man was a -gentleman, and could not, even in all the heat of rivalship, make use of -such an argument. There was, indeed, nothing to be said against the man -whom Roland felt, with a pang, to be so much more interesting than -himself; a man who knew when to hold his tongue as well as when to -speak; who would never have gone and done so ridiculous a thing as he -(Hamerton) had done, trying to convince a girl against her will and to -shake her partisan devotion. The young fellow perceived now what a mad -idea this had been, but unfortunately it is not till after the event -that a simple mind learns such a lesson. Rivers, who was older, had no -doubt found it out by experience, or else he had a superior instinct and -was a better diplomatist, or perhaps thought less of the consequences -involved. It wounded Roland to think of the girl he loved as associated -in any way with a woman who was under a stain. He could not bear to -think that her robe of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> whiteness should ever touch the garments of one -who was sullied. But afterwards, when he came to think, he saw how -foolish he had been. Perhaps Rosalind felt, though she could not allow -it, everything he had ventured to suggest; but, naturally, when it was -said to her brutally by an outsider, she would flare up. Roland could -remember, even in his own limited experience, corresponding instances. -He saw the defects of the members of his own family clearly enough, but -if any one else ventured to point them out! Yes, yes, he had been a -fool, and he had met with the fate he deserved. Rosalind had said -conditionally that if it were true she would never speak to him again, -but that it was not true. She had thus left for herself a way of escape. -He knew very well that it was all truth he had said, but he was glad -enough to take advantage of her wilful scepticism when he perceived that -it afforded a way of escape from the sentence of excommunication -otherwise to be pronounced against him. He stayed away from the Elms for -a time, which was also the time of the frost, when there was nothing to -be done; but ventured on the third or fourth day to the pond to skate, -and was invited by Mrs. Lennox, as was natural, to stay and dine, which -he accepted eagerly when he perceived that Rosalind, though cold, was -not inexorable. She said very little to him for that evening or many -evenings after, but still she did not carry out her threat of never -speaking to him again. But when he met the other, as he now did -perpetually, it was not in human nature to preserve an unbroken -amiability. He let Rivers see by many a silent indication that he hated -him, and found him in his way. He became disagreeable, poor boy, by dint -of rivalry and the galling sense he had of the advantages possessed by -the new-comer. He would go so far as to sneer at travellers’ tales, and -hint a doubt that there might be another version of such and such an -incident. When he had been guilty of suggestions of this kind he was -overpowered with shame. But it is very hard to be generous to a man who -has the better of you in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> every way; who is handsomer, cleverer, even -taller; can talk far better, can amuse people whom you only bore; and -when you attempt to argue can turn you, alas! inside out with a touch of -his finger. The prudent thing for Roland to have done would have been to -abstain from any comparison of himself with his accomplished adversary; -but he was not wise enough to do this: few, very few, young men are so -wise. He was always presenting his injured, offended, clouded face, by -the side of the fine features and serene, secure look of the elder man, -who was thus able to contemplate him, and, worse, to present him to -others, in the aspect of a mad youngster, irritable and unreasoning. -Roland was acutely, painfully aware that this was not his character at -all, and yet that he had the appearance of it, and that Rosalind no -doubt must consider him so. The union of pain, resentment, indignation -at the thought of such injustice, with a sense that it scarcely was -injustice, and that he was doing everything to justify it, made the poor -young fellow as miserable as can be imagined. He did not deserve to be -so looked upon, and yet he did deserve it; and Rivers was an intolerable -prig and tyrant, using a giant’s strength villainously as a giant, yet -in a way which was too cunning to afford any opening for reproach. He -could have wept in his sense of the intolerable, and yet he had not a -word to say. Was there ever a position more difficult to bear? And poor -Roland felt that he had lost ground in every way. Ever since that -unlucky interference of his and disclosure of his private information -(which he saw now was the silliest thing that could have been done) -there was no lingering in the fire-light, no <i>tête-à-tête</i> ever accorded -to him. When Mrs. Lennox went to dress for dinner, Rosalind went too. -After a while she ceased to show her displeasure, and talked to him as -usual when they met in the presence of the family, but he saw her by -herself no more. He could not make out indeed whether <i>that</i> fellow was -ever admitted to any such privilege, but it certainly was extended to -himself no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span></p> - -<p>The neighborhood began to take a great interest in the Elms when this -rivalship first became apparent, which it need not have done had -Hamerton shown any command of himself; for Mr. Rivers was perfectly -well-bred, and there is nothing in which distinguished manners show more -plainly than in the way by which, in the first stage of a love-making, a -man can secure the object of his devotion from all remark. There can be -no better test of a high-bred gentleman; and though he was only the son -of an humble family with no pretension to be considered county people, -he answered admirably to it. Rosalind was herself conscious of the -special homage he paid her, but no one else would have been at all the -wiser had it not been for the ridiculous jealousy of Roland, who could -not contain himself in Rivers’s presence.</p> - -<p>The position of Rosalind between these two men was a little different -from the ordinary ideal. The right thing to have done in her -circumstances would have been, had she “felt a preference,” as it was -expressed in the eighteenth century, to have, with all the delicacy and -firmness proper to maidenhood, so discouraged and put down the one who -was not preferred as to have left him no excuse for persisting in his -vain pretensions. If she had no preference she ought to have gently but -decidedly made both aware that their homage was vain. As for taking any -pleasure in it, if she did not intend in either case to recompense -it—that would not be thought of for a moment. But Rosalind, though she -had come in contact with so much that was serious in life, and had so -many of its gravest duties to perform, was yet so young and so natural -as not to be at all superior to the pleasure of being sought. She liked -it, though her historian does not know how to make the admission. No -doubt, had she been accused of such a sentiment, she would have denied -it hotly and even with some indignation, not being at all in the habit -of investigating the phenomena of her own mind; but yet she did not in -her heart dislike to feel that she was of the first importance to more -than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> one beholder, and that her presence or absence made a difference -in the aspect of the world to two men. A sense of being approved, -admired, thought much of, is always agreeable. Even when the sentiment -does not go the length of love, there is a certain moral support in the -consciousness in a girl’s mind that she embodies to some one the best -things in humankind. When the highest instincts of love touch the heart -it becomes a sort of profanity, indeed, to think of any but the one who -has awakened that divine inspiration; but, in the earlier stages, before -any sentiment has become definite, or her thoughts begun to contemplate -any final decision, there is a secret gratification in the mere -consciousness. It may not be an elevated feeling, but it is a true one. -She is pleased; there is a certain elation in her veins in spite of -herself. Mr. Ruskin says that a good girl should have seven suitors at -least, all ready to do impossibilities in her service, among whom she -should choose, but not too soon, letting each have a chance. Perhaps in -the present state of statistics this is somewhat impracticable, and it -may perhaps be doubted whether the adoration of these seven gentlemen -would be a very safe moral atmosphere for the young lady. It also goes -rather against the other rule which insists on a girl falling in love as -well as her lover; that is to say, making her selection by chance, by -impulse, and not by proof of the worthiest. But at least it is a high -authority in favor of a plurality of suitors, and might be adduced by -the offenders in such cases as a proof that their otherwise not quite -excusable satisfaction in the devotion of more than one was almost -justifiable. The dogma had not been given forth in Rosalind’s day, and -she was not aware that she had any excuse at all, but blushed for -herself if ever she was momentarily conscious of so improper a -sentiment. She blushed, and then she withdrew from the outside world in -which these two looked at her with looks so different from those they -directed towards any other, and thought of neither of them. On such -occasions she would return to her room with a vague cloud of incense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> -breathing about her, a sort of faint atmosphere of flattered and happy -sentiment in her mind, or sit down in the firelight in the drawing-room, -which Aunt Sophy had left, and think. About whom? Oh, about no one! she -would have said—about a pair of beautiful eyes which were like -Johnny’s, and which seemed to follow and gaze at her with a rapture of -love and devotion still more wonderful to behold. This image was so -abstract that it escaped all the drawbacks of fact. There was nothing to -detract from it, no test of reality to judge it by. Sometimes she found -it impossible not to laugh at Roland; sometimes she disagreed violently -with something Mr. Rivers said; but she never quarrelled with the -visionary lover, who had appeared out of the unknown merely to make an -appeal to her, as it seemed, to frustrate her affections, to bid her -wait until he should reveal himself. Would he come again? Should she -ever see him again? All this was unreal in the last degree. But so is -everything in a young mind at such a moment, when nature plays with the -first approaches of fate.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers seems to be staying a long time in Clifton,” Mrs. Lennox -said one evening, disturbing Rosalind out of these dreams. Roland was in -the room, though she could scarcely see him, and Rosalind had been -guilty of what she herself felt to be the audacity of thinking of her -unknown lover in the very presence of this visible and real one. She had -been sitting very quiet, drawing back out of the light, while a gentle -hum of talk went on on the other side of the fire. The windows, with the -twilight stars looking in, and the bare boughs of the trees waving -across, formed the background, and Mrs. Lennox, relieved against one of -those windows, was the centre of the warm but uncertainly lighted room. -Hamerton sat behind, responding vaguely, and intent upon the shadowed -corner in which Rosalind was. “How can he be spared, I wonder, out of -his newspaper work!” said the placid voice. “I have always heard it was -a dreadful drudgery, and that you had to be up all night, and never got -any rest.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<p>“He is not one of the principal ones, perhaps,” Roland replied.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he must be a principal! John would not have brought a man here who -is nothing particular to begin with, if he had not been a sort of a -personage in his way.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, perhaps he is too much of a principal,” said Hamerton; -“perhaps it is only the secondary people that are always on duty; and -this, you know, is what they call the silly time of the year.”</p> - -<p>“I never knew much about newspaper people,” said Aunt Sophy, in her -comfortable voice, something like a cat purring by the warm glow of the -fire. “We did not think much of them in my time. Indeed, there are a -great many people who are quite important in society nowadays that were -never thought of in my time. I never knew how important a newspaper -editor was till I read that novel of Mr. Trollope’s—do you remember -which one it is, Rosalind?—where there is Tom something or other who is -the editor of the <i>Jupiter</i>. That was said to mean the <i>Times</i>. But if -Mr. Rivers is so important as that, how does he manage to stay so long -at Clifton, where I am sure there is nothing going on?”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” said Hamerton, after a pause, “there are things going on -which are more important than a man’s business, though perhaps they -don’t show.”</p> - -<p>There was something in the tone with which he said this which called -Rosalind out of her dreams. She had heard them talking before, but not -with any interest; now she was roused, though she could scarcely tell -why.</p> - -<p>“That is all very well for you, Roland, who have no business. Oh! I know -you’re a barrister, but as you never did anything at the bar— A man, -when he has money of his own and does not live by his profession, can -please himself, I suppose; but when his profession is all he has, -nothing, you know, ought to be more important than that. And if his -family keep him from his work, it is not right. A mother ought to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> know -better, and even a sister; they ought not to keep him, if it is they who -are keeping him. Now, do you think, putting yourself in their place, -that it is right?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t fancy myself in the place of Rivers’s mother or sister,” said -Roland, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I can, quite! and I could not do such a thing; for my own -pleasure injure him in his career! Oh, no, no! And if it was any one -else,” said Aunt Sophy, “I do think it would be nearly criminal. If it -was a girl, for instance. Girls are the most thoughtless creatures on -the face of the earth; they don’t understand such things; they don’t -really know. I suppose, never having had anything to do themselves, they -don’t understand. But if a girl should have so little feeling, and play -with a man, and keep him from his work, when perhaps it may be ruinous -to him,” said Mrs. Lennox—when she was not contradicted, she could -express herself with some force, though if once diverted from her course -she had little strength to stand against opposition—“I cannot say less -than that it would be criminal,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Is any one keeping Mr. Rivers from his work?” said Rosalind, suddenly, -out of her corner, which made Mrs. Lennox start.</p> - -<p>“Dear me, are you there, Rosalind? I thought you had gone away” (which -we fear was not quite true). “Keeping Mr. Rivers, did you say? I am -sure, my dear, I don’t know. I think something must be detaining him. I -am sure he did not mean to stay so long when he first came here.”</p> - -<p>“But perhaps he knows best himself, Aunt Sophy, don’t you think?” -Rosalind said, rising up with youthful severity and coming forward into -the ruddy light.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, my dear, I have no doubt he does,” Mrs. Lennox said, -faltering; “I was only saying—”</p> - -<p>“You were blaming some one; you were saying it was his mother’s fault, -or perhaps some girl’s fault. I think he is likely to know much better -than any girl; it must be his own fault<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> if he is wasting his time. I -shouldn’t think he was wasting his time. He looks as if he knew very -well what he was about—better than a girl, who, as you were saying, -seldom has anything to do.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me, Rosalind, I did not know you were listening so closely. Yes, -to be sure he must know best. You know, Roland, gossip is a thing that -she cannot abide. And she knows you and I have been gossiping about our -neighbors. It is not so; it is really because I take a great interest; -and you too, Roland.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I don’t take any interest,” cried Hamerton, hastily; “it was -simple gossip on my part. If he were to lose ever so much time or money, -or anything else, I shouldn’t care!”</p> - -<p>“It is of no consequence to any of us,” Rosalind said. “I should think -Mr. Rivers did what he pleased, without minding much what people say. -And as for throwing the blame upon a girl! What could a girl have to do -with it?” She stood still for a moment, holding out her hands in a sort -of indignant appeal, and then turned to leave the room, taking no notice -of the apologetic outburst from her aunt.</p> - -<p>“I am sure I was not blaming any girl, Rosalind. I was only saying, if -it was a girl; but to be sure, when one thinks of it, a girl couldn’t -have anything to do with it,” came somewhat tremulously from Aunt -Sophy’s lips. Miss Trevanion took no notice of this, but went away -through the partial darkness, holding her head high. She had been -awakened for the moment out of her dreams. The two who were left behind -felt guilty, and drew together for mutual support.</p> - -<p>“She thinks I mean her,” said Mrs. Lennox; “she thinks I was talking at -her. Now I never talk at people, Roland, and really, when I began, I did -think she had gone away. You don’t suppose I ever meant it was -Rosalind?” she cried.</p> - -<p>“But it <i>is</i> Rosalind,” said young Hamerton. “I can’t be deceived about -it. We are both in the same box. She might make up her mind and put us -out of our misery. No, I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> want to be put out of my misery. I’d -rather wait on and try, and think there was a little hope.”</p> - -<p>“There must be hope,” cried Mrs. Lennox; “of course there is hope. Is it -rational that she should care for a stranger with gray hair, and old -enough to be her father, instead of you, whom she has known all her -life? Oh, no, Roland, it is not possible. And even if it were, I should -object, you may be sure. It may be fine to be a <i>Times</i> Correspondent, -but what could he settle upon her? You may be sure he could settle -nothing upon her. He has his mother and sister to think of. And then he -is not like a man with money; he has only what he works for; there is -not much in that that could be satisfactory to a girl’s friends. No, no, -I will never give my consent to it; I promise you that.”</p> - -<p>Roland shook his head notwithstanding. But he still took a little -comfort from what Aunt Sophy said. Such words always afford a grain of -consolation; though he knew that she was not capable of holding by them -in face of any opposition, still there was a certain support even in -hearing them said. But he shook his head. “If she liked him best I would -not stand in their way,” he said; “that is the only thing to be guided -by. Thank you very much, Mrs. Lennox; you are my only comfort. But -still, you know, if she likes him best— I don’t think much of the gray -hair and all that,” he added somewhat tremulously. “I’m not the man he -is, in spite of his gray hair. And girls are just as likely as not to -like that best,” said the honest young fellow. “I don’t entertain any -delusion on the subject. I would not stand in her way, not a moment, if -she likes him best.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rosalind</span> herself was much aroused by this discussion. She thought it -unjust and cruel. She had done nothing to call for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> such a reproach. She -had not attempted to make Mr. Rivers love her, nor to keep him from his -work, nor to interfere in any way with his movements. She had even -avoided him at the first—almost disliked him, she said to herself—and -that she should be exposed to remark on his account was not to be borne. -She retired to her room, full of lively indignation against her aunt and -Roland, and even against Rivers, who was entirely innocent, surely, if -ever man was. This was another phase, one she had not thought of, in the -chapter of life which had begun by that wonder in her mind why she had -no lover. She had been surprised by the absence of that figure in her -life, and then had seen him appear, and had felt the elation, the secret -joy, of being worshipped. But now the matter had entered into another -phase, and she herself was to be judged as an independent actor in it; -she, who had been only passive, doing nothing, looking on with curiosity -and interest, and perhaps pleasure, but no more. What had she to do with -it? She had no part in the matter: it was their doing, theirs only, all -through. She had done nothing to influence his fate. She had conducted -herself towards him no otherwise than she did to old Sir John, or Mr. -Penworthy, the clergyman, both of whom were Rosalind’s good friends. If -Mr. Rivers had taken up a different idea of her, that was his doing, not -hers. She detain him, keep him from his business, interfere with his -career! She thought Aunt Sophy must be mad, or dreaming. Rosalind was -indignant to be made a party at all in the matter. It had thus entered a -stage of which she had no anticipation. It had been pleasant inasmuch as -it was entirely apart from herself, the attentions unsolicited, the -admiration unsought. It was a new idea altogether that she should be -considered accountable, or brought within the possibility of blame. What -was she to do? Mr. Rivers was expected at the Elms that very evening, at -one of Mrs. Lennox’s everlasting dinner-parties. Rosalind had not -hitherto looked upon them as everlasting dinner-parties. She had enjoyed -the lively flow of society, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> Aunt Sophy (who enjoyed it very much) -considered herself obliged to keep up for Rosalind’s sake, that she -should have pleasant company and amusement. Now, however, Miss Trevanion -was suddenly of opinion that she had hated them all along; that, above -all, she had disliked the constant invitations to these men. It would be -indispensable that she should put up with this evening’s party, which it -was now much too late to elude. But after to-night she resolved that she -would make a protest. She would say to Aunt Sophy that henceforward she -must be excused. Whatever happened, she must disentangle herself from -this odious position as a girl who was responsible for the feeling, -whatever it was, entertained for her by a gentleman. It was -preposterous, it was insupportable. Whatever he chose to think, it was -his doing, and not hers at all.</p> - -<p>These sentiments gave great stateliness to Rosalind’s aspect when she -went down to dinner. They even influenced her dress, causing her to put -aside the pretty toilet she had intended to make, and attire herself in -an old and very serious garment which had been appropriated to evenings -when the family was alone. Mrs. Lennox stared at her niece in -consternation when she saw this visible sign of contrariety and -displeasure. It disturbed her beyond measure to see how far Rosalind had -gone in her annoyance: whereas the gentlemen, with their usual density, -saw nothing at all the matter, but thought her more dazzling than usual -in the little black dress, which somehow threw up all her advantages of -complexion and the whiteness of her pretty arms and throat. She had put -on manners, however, which were more repellent than her dress, and which -froze Hamerton altogether, who had a guilty knowledge of what was the -matter which Rivers did not share. Roland was frozen externally, but it -cannot be denied that in his heart there was a certain guilty pleasure. -He thought that the suggestion that she had encouraged Rivers was quite -enough to make Rosalind henceforward so much the reverse of encouraging -that his rival would see the folly of going on with his suit, and the -field<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> would be left free to himself, as before. Rosalind might not be -the better inclined, in consequence, to himself: but it was worth -something to get that fellow, whom nobody could help looking at, away. -There were two or three indifferent people in the company this evening, -to whose amusement Rosalind devoted herself, ignoring both the -candidates for her favor; and, as is natural in such circumstances, she -was more lively, more gay, than usual, and eager to please these -indifferent persons. As for Rivers, he thought she was out of sorts, -perhaps out of temper (for he was aware that in this point she was not -perfect), her usual friendliness and sweetness clouded over. But a man -of his age does not jump into despair as youth does, and he waited -patiently, believing that the cloud would pass away. Rivers had been -very wise in his way of approaching Rosalind. He had not tried openly to -appropriate her society, to keep by her side, to make his adoration -patent, as foolish Roland did. To-night, however, he, too, adopted a -different course. Perhaps her changed aspect stirred him up, and he felt -that the moment had come for a bolder stroke. However this might be, -whether it was done by accident or on principle, the fact was that his -tactics were changed. When Rosalind rose, by Mrs. Lennox’s desire, and -went to the writing-table to write an address, Rivers rose too, and -followed her, drawing a chair near hers with the air of having something -special to say. “I want to ask your advice, if you will permit me, Miss -Trevanion,” he said.</p> - -<p>“My advice! oh, no!” said Rosalind; “I am not wise enough to be able to -advise any one.”</p> - -<p>“You are young and generous. I do not want wisdom.”</p> - -<p>“Not so very young,” said Rosalind. “And how do you know that I am -generous at all? I do not think I am.”</p> - -<p>He smiled and went on, without noticing this protest. “My mother,” he -said, “wishes to come to London to be near me. I am sometimes sent off -to the end of the world, and often in danger. She thinks she would hear -of me more easily, be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> nearer, so to speak, though I might happen to be -in India or Zululand.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was taken much by surprise. Her thoughts of him, as of a man -occupied above everything else by herself, seemed to come back upon her -as if they had been flung in her face. His mother! was she the subject -of his anxiety? She felt as though she had been indulging a preposterous -vanity and the most unfounded expectations. The color flew to her face; -for what had she to do with his mother, if his mother was what he was -thinking of? She was irritated by the suggestion, she could scarcely -tell why.</p> - -<p>“I think it is very natural she should wish it, and you would be at -home, I suppose, sometimes,” she replied, with a certain stiffness.</p> - -<p>“Do you think so? You know, Miss Trevanion, my family and I are in two -different worlds; I should be a fool if I tried to hide it. Would the -difference be less, do you think, between St. James’s and Islington, or -between London and Clifton? I think the first would tell most. They -would not be happy with me, nor I, alas! with them. It is the penalty a -man has to pay for getting on, as they call it. I have got on in my -small way, and they—are just where they were. How am I to settle it? If -you could imagine yourself, if that were possible, in my position, what -would you do?”</p> - -<p>There was a soft insinuation in his voice which would have gone to any -girl’s heart; and his eyes expressed a boundless faith in her opinion -which could not be mistaken. The irritation which was entirely without -cause died away, and, with the usual rebound of a generous nature, -Rosalind, penitent, felt her heart moved to a return of the confidence -he showed in her. She answered softly, “I would do what my mother -wished.” She was seated still in front of the writing-table where stood -the portrait, the little carved door of the frame half closed on it. A -sudden impulse seized her. She pointed to it quickly, without waiting to -think: “That is the children’s mother,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span></p> - -<p>He gave her a look of mingled sympathy and pain. “I had heard -something.”</p> - -<p>“What did you hear, Mr. Rivers? Something that was not true? If you -heard that she was not good, the best woman in the world, it was not -true. I have always wanted to tell you. She went away not with her will; -because she could not help it. The children have almost forgotten her, -but I can never forget. She was all the mother I have ever known.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind did not know at all why at such a moment she should suddenly -have opened her heart to him on this subject, through which he had given -her such a wound. She took it up hastily, instinctively, in the -quickening impulse of her disturbed thoughts. She added in a low voice, -“What you said hurt me—oh, it hurt me, that night; but afterwards, when -I came to think of it, the feeling went away.”</p> - -<p>“There was nothing to hurt you,” said Rivers, hastily. “I saw it was so, -but I could not explain. Besides, I was a stranger, and understood -nothing. Don’t you think I might be of use to you perhaps, if you were -to trust me?” He looked at her with eyes so full of sympathy that -Rosalind’s heart was altogether melted. “I saw,” he added quietly, “that -there was a whole history in her face.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me all you saw—if you spoke to her—what she said. Oh! if she had -only known you were coming here! But life seems like that—we meet -people as it were in the dark, and we never know how much we may have to -do with them. I could not let you go away without asking you. Tell me, -before you go away.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you. But I am not going away, Miss Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Rosalind. She felt confused, as if she had gone through a -world of conflicting experience since she first spoke. “I thought you -must be going, and that this was why you asked me.”</p> - -<p>“About my mother? It was with a very different view I spoke. I wished -you to know something more about me. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> wished you to understand in what -position I am, and to make you aware of her existence, and to find out -what you thought about it; what would appear to you the better way.” He -was more excited and tremulous than became his years; and she was -softened by the emotion more than by the highest eloquence.</p> - -<p>“It must be always best to make her happy,” Rosalind said.</p> - -<p>“Shall I tell you what would make her happy? To see me sitting here by -your side, to hear you counselling me so sweetly; to know that was your -opinion, to hope perhaps—”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers, do not say any more about this. You make so much more than -is necessary of a few simple words. What I want you to tell me is about -<i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you as much as I know,” he said, with a pause and visible -effort of self-restraint. “She was travelling by unusual routes, but -without any mystery. She had a maid with her, a tall, thin, anxious -woman.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Jane!” cried Rosalind, clasping her hands together with a little -cry of recognition and pleasure; this seemed to give such reality to the -tale. She knew very well that the faithful maid had gone with Mrs. -Trevanion; but to see her in this picture gave comfort to her heart.</p> - -<p>“You knew her? She seemed to be very anxious about her mistress, very -careful of her. Miss Trevanion, it may very well be that in my -wanderings I may meet with them again. Shall I say anything? Shall I -carry a message?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind found her voice choked with tears. She made him a sign of -assent, unable to do more.</p> - -<p>“What shall I tell her? That you trust me—that I am a messenger from -you? I would rather be your ambassador than the queen’s. Shall I say -that I have been so happy as to gain your confidence—or even perhaps—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, a little thing will do,” cried the girl; “she will understand you -as soon as you say that Rosalind—”</p> - -<p>He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon hers, his face full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> of -emotion. He put out his hand and touched hers, which was leaning on the -table. “Yes,” he said, “I will say that Rosalind—so long as you give me -an excuse for using that name.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind came to herself with a little shock. She withdrew her hand -hastily. “Perhaps I am saying too much,” she said. “It is only a dream, -and you may never see her. But I could not bear that you should imagine -we did not speak of her, or that I did not love her, and trust her,” she -added, drawing a long breath. “This is a great deal too much about me, -and you had begun to tell me of your own arrangements,” Rosalind said, -drawing her chair aside a little in instinctive alarm. It was the sound -she made in doing so which called the attention of John Trevanion—or, -rather, which moved him to turn his steps that way, his attention having -been already attracted by the fixed and jealous gaze of Roland, who had -sat with his face towards the group by the writing-table ever since his -rival had followed Rosalind there.</p> - -<p>Rivers saw that his chance was over, with a sigh, yet not perhaps with -all the vehement disappointment of a youth. He had made a beginning, and -perhaps he was not yet ready to go any further, though his feelings -might have hurried him on too hastily, injudiciously, had no -interruption occurred. But he had half frightened without displeasing -her, which, as he was an experienced man, was a condition of things he -did not think undesirable. There is a kind of fright which, to be -plunged into yet escape from, to understand without being forced to come -to any conclusion, suits the high, fantastical character of a young -maiden’s awakening feelings. And then before he, who was of a race so -different, could actually venture to ask a Miss Trevanion of Highcourt -to marry him, a great many calculations and arrangements were necessary. -He thought John Trevanion, who was a man of the world, looked at him -with a certain surprise and disapproval, asking himself, perhaps, what -such a man could have to offer, what settlements he could make, what -establishment he could keep up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span></p> - -<p>“Are not you cold in this corner,” John said, “so far from the fire, -Rosalind?—and you are a chilly creature. Run away and get yourself -warm.” He took her chair as she rose, and sat down with an evident -intention of continuing the conversation. As a matter of fact, John -Trevanion was not asking himself what settlements a newspaper -correspondent could make. He was thinking of other things. He gave a nod -of his head towards the portrait, and said in a low tone, “She has been -talking to you of <i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p>Rivers was half disappointed, half relieved. It proved to him, he -thought, that he was too insignificant a pretender to arouse any alarm -in Rosalind’s relations, which was a galling thought. At the same time -it was better that he should have made up his mind more completely what -he was to say, before he exposed himself to any questioning on the -subject. So he answered with a simple “Yes.”</p> - -<p>“We cannot make up our minds to think any harm of her,” said Trevanion, -leaning his head on his hand. “The circumstances are very strange, too -strange for me to attempt to explain. And what you said seemed damaging -enough. But I want you to know that I share somehow that instinctive -confidence of Rosalind’s. I believe there must be some explanation, even -of the—companion—”</p> - -<p>Rivers could not but smile a little, but he kept the smile carefully to -himself. He was not so much interested in the woman he did not know as -he was in the young creature who, he hoped, might yet make a revolution -in his life.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not very long after this that one of “England’s little wars” -broke out—not a little war in so far as loss and cost went, but yet one -of those convulsions that go on far from us, that only when they are -identified by some dreadful and tragic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> incident really rouse the -nation. It is more usual now than it used to be to have the note of -horror struck in this way, and Rivers was one of the most important -instructors of the English public in such matters. He went up to the -Elms in the morning, an unusual hour, to tell his friends there that he -was ordered off at once, and to bid them good-bye. He made as little as -possible of his own special mission, but there was no disguising the -light of excitement, anxiety, and expectation that was in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“If I were a soldier,” he said, “I should feel myself twice as -interesting; and Sophy perhaps would give me her ribbon to wear in my -cap; but a newspaper correspondent has his share of the kicks, and not -much of the ha’pence, in the way of glory at least.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think quite the reverse,” said Mrs. Lennox, always anxious to -please and encourage; “because you know we should never know anything -about it at home, but for you.”</p> - -<p>“And the real ha’pence do fall to your share, and not to the soldiers,” -said John.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps it does pay better, which you will think an ignoble -distinction,” he said, turning to Rosalind with a laugh. “But picking up -news is not without danger any more than inflicting death is, and the -trouble we take to forestall our neighbors is as hard as greater -generalship.” He was very uneasy, looking anxiously from one to another. -The impossibility of getting these people out of the way! What device -would do it? he wondered. Mrs. Lennox sat in her chair by the fire with -her crewel work as if she would never move; Sophy had a holiday and was -pervading the room in all corners at once; and John Trevanion was -writing at Rosalind’s table, with the composure of a man who had no -intention of being disturbed. How often does this hopeless condition of -affairs present itself when but one chance remains for the anxious -lover! Had Rivers been a duke, the difficulty might easily have been got -over, but he whose chief hope is not in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> family, but in favor of the -lady herself, has a more difficult task. Mrs. Lennox, he felt convinced, -would have no desire to clear the way for him, and as for Mr. Trevanion, -it was too probable that even had the suitor been a duke, on the eve of -a long and dangerous expedition, he would have watched over Rosalind’s -tranquillity and would not have allowed her to be disturbed. It was a -hopeless sort of glance which the lover threw round him, ending in an -unspoken appeal. They were very kind to him; had he wanted money or help -of influence, or any support to push him on in the world, John -Trevanion, a true friend to all whom he esteemed, would have given it. -But Rosalind—they would not give him five minutes with Rosalind to save -his life.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lennox, however, whose amiability always overcame her prudence, -caught the petition in his eyes and interpreted it after her own -fashion.</p> - -<p>“Dear me,” she said, “how sorry we shall be to lose you! But you really -must stay to lunch. The last time! You could not do less for us than -that. And we shall drink your health and wish you a happy return.”</p> - -<p>“That will do him so much good; when he must have a hundred things to -do.”</p> - -<p>“The kindness will do me good. Yes, I have a hundred things to do, but -since Mrs. Lennox is so kind; it will do me more good than anything,” -Rivers said. His eyes were glistening as if there was moisture in them; -and Rosalind, looking up and perceiving the restlessness of anxiety in -his face, was affected by a sympathetic excitement. She began to realize -what the position was—that he was going away, and might never see her -again. She would be sorry too. It would be a loss of importance, a sort -of coming down in the world, to have no longer this man—not a boy, like -Roland; a man whose opinions people looked up to, who was one of the -instructors and oracles of the world—depending upon her favor. There -was perhaps more than this, a slightly responsive sentiment on her own -part,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> not like his, but yet something—an interest, a liking. Her heart -began to beat; there was a sort of anguish in his eyes which moved her -more, she thought, than she had ever been moved before—a force of -appeal to her which she could scarcely resist. But what could she do? -She could not, any more than he could, clear the room of the principal -persons in it, and give him the chance of speaking to her. Would she do -it if she could?—she thought she would not. But yet she was agitated -slightly, sympathetically, and gave him an answering look in which, in -the excitement of the moment, he read a great deal more than there was -to read. Was this to be all that was to pass between them before he went -away? How commonplace the observations of the others seemed to them -both! especially to Rivers, whose impatience was scarcely to be -concealed, and who looked at the calm, every-day proceedings of the -heads of the house with a sense that they were intolerable, yet a -consciousness that the least sign of impatience would be fatal to him.</p> - -<p>“Are you frightened, then, Mr. Rivers, that you look so strange?” said -Sophy, planting herself in front of him, and looking curiously into his -face.</p> - -<p>“Sophy, how can you be so rude?” Mrs. Lennox said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I am frightened—not yet,” he said, with a laugh. “It is -time enough when the fighting begins.”</p> - -<p>“Are you very frightened <i>then</i>? It is not rudeness; I want to know. It -must be very funny to go into battle. I should not have time to be -frightened, I should want to know how people feel—and I never knew any -one who was just going before. Did you ever want to run away?”</p> - -<p>“You know,” said Rivers, “I don’t fight, except with another newspaper -fellow, who shall get the news first.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure Mr. Rivers is frightened, for he has got tears in his eyes,” -said the <i>enfant terrible</i>. “Well, if they are not tears, it is -something that makes your eyes very shiny. You have always rather shiny -eyes. And you have never got a chair all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> this time, Mr. Rivers. Please -sit down; for to move about like that worries Aunt Sophy. You are as bad -as Rex when he comes home for the holidays. Aunt Sophy is always saying -she will not put up with it.”</p> - -<p>“Child!” cried Mrs. Lennox, with dismay, “what I say to you is not meant -for Mr. Rivers. Of course Mr. Rivers is a little excited. I am sure I -shall look for the newspapers, and read all the descriptions with twice -as much interest. Rosalind, I wish you would go and get some flowers. We -have none for the table. You were so busy this morning, you did not pay -any attention. Those we have here will do very well for to-day, but for -the table we want something fresh. Get some of those fine cactuses. They -are just the thing to put on the table for any one who is going to the -wars.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Aunt Sophy,” said Rosalind, faintly. She saw what was coming, and -it frightened, yet excited her. “There is plenty of time. It will do -in—half an hour.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs. Lennox, with an absurd insistence, as if she meant -something, “you had better go at once.”</p> - -<p>“I am nervous, as Sophy has discovered, and can’t keep still,” said -Rivers. “May I go too?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind looked at him, on her side, with a kind of tremulous appeal, as -he took her basket out of her hand. It seemed to say “Don’t!” with a -distinct sense that it was vain to say so. Aunt Sophy, with that foolish -desire to please which went against all her convictions and baffled her -own purpose, looked up at them as they stood, Rosalind hesitating and he -so eager. “Yes, do; it will cheer you up a little,” the foolish guardian -said.</p> - -<p>And John Trevanion wrote on calmly, thinking nothing. They abandoned her -to her fate. It was such a chance as Rivers could not have hoped for. He -could scarcely contain himself as he followed her out of the room. She -went very slowly, hoping perhaps even now to be called back, though she -scarcely wished to be called back, and would have been disappointed too, -perhaps. She could not tell what her feelings were, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> what she was -going to do. Yet there came before her eyes as she went out a sudden -vision of the other, the stranger, he whom she did not know, who had -wooed her in the silence, in her dreams, and penetrated her eyes with -eyes not bright and keen, like those of Rivers, but pathetic, like -little Johnny’s. Was she going to forsake the visionary for the actual? -Rosalind felt that she too was going into battle, not knowing what might -come of it; into her first personal encounter with life and a crisis in -which she must act for herself.</p> - -<p>“I did not hope for anything like this,” he said, hurriedly; “a good -angel must have got it for me. I thought I should have to go without a -word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! there will be many more words; you have promised Aunt Sophy to -stay to lunch.”</p> - -<p>“To see you in the midst of the family is almost worse than not seeing -you at all. Miss Trevanion, you must know. Perhaps I am doing wrong to -take advantage of their confidence, but how can I help it? Everything in -the world is summed up to me in this moment. Say something to me! To -talk of love in common words seems nothing. I know no words that mean -half what I mean. Say you will think of me sometimes when I am away.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind trembled very much in spite of all she could do to steady -herself. They had gone through the hall without speaking, and it was -only when they had gained the shelter of the conservatory, in which they -were safe from interruption, that he thus burst forth. The interval had -been so breathless and exciting that every emotion was intensified. She -did not venture to look up at him, feeling as if something might take -flame at his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers, I could say that very easily, but perhaps it would not mean -what you think.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “I see how it is; the words are too small for me, and -you would mean just what they say. I want them to mean a great deal -more, everything, as mine do. At my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> age,” he said, with an agitated -smile—“for I am too old for you, besides being not good enough in any -way—at my age I ought to have the sense to speak calmly, to offer you -as much as I can, which is no great things; but I have got out of my own -control, Rosalind. Well, yes, let me say that—a man’s love is worth -that much, to call the girl whom he loves Rosalind—Rosalind. I could go -on saying it, and die so, like Perdita’s prince. All exaggerated -nonsense and folly, I know, I know, and yet all true.”</p> - -<p>She raised her head for a moment and gave him a look in which there was -a sort of tender gratitude yet half-reproach, as if entreating him to -spare her that outburst of passion, to meet which she was so entirely -prepared.</p> - -<p>“I understand,” he said; “I can see into your sweet mind as if it were -open before me, I am so much older than you are. But the love ought to -be most on the man’s side. I will take whatever you will give me—a -little, a mere alms!—if I cannot get any more. If you say only <i>that</i>, -that you will think of me sometimes when I am away, and mean only that, -and let me come back, if I come back, and see—what perhaps Providence -may have done for me in the meantime—”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers, I will think of you often. Is it possible I could do -otherwise after what you say? But when you come back, if you find that I -do not—care for you more than now—”</p> - -<p>“Do you care for me at all now, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“In one way, but not as you want me. I must tell you the truth. I am -always glad when you come, I shall be very glad when you come back, but -I could not—I could not—”</p> - -<p>“You could not—marry me, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>She drew back a little from his side. She said “No” in a quick, startled -tone; then she added “Nor any one,” half under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Nor any one,” he repeated; “that is enough. And you will think of me -when I am away, and if I come back, I may<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> come and ask? All this I will -accept on my knees, and, at present, ask for no more.”</p> - -<p>“But you must not expect—you must not make sure of—when you come -back—”</p> - -<p>“I will wait upon Providence and my good angel, Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>“What are you saying, Mr. Rivers, about angels and Rosalind? Do you call -her by her name, and do you think she is an angel? That is how people -talk in novels; I have read a great many. Why, you have got no flowers! -What have you been doing all this time? I made Aunt Sophy send me to -help you with the cactuses, and Uncle John said, ‘Well, perhaps it will -be better.’ But, oh, what idle things you are! The cactuses are not here -even. You look as if you had forgotten all about them, Rose.”</p> - -<p>“We knew you were sure to come, and waited for you,” said Rivers; “that -is to say, I did. I knew you were sure to follow. Here, Sophy, you and I -will go for the cactuses, and Miss Trevanion will sit down and wait for -us. Don’t you think that is the best way?”</p> - -<p>“You call her Miss Trevanion now, but you called her Rosalind when I was -not here. Oh, and I know you don’t care a bit for the flowers: you -wanted only to talk to her when Uncle John and Aunt Sophy were out of -the way.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think that was natural, Sophy? You are a wise little girl. -You are very fond of Uncle John and Aunt Sophy, but still now and then -you like to get away for a time, and tell your secrets.”</p> - -<p>“Were you telling your secrets to Rosalind? I am not <i>very</i> fond of -them. I like to see what is going on, and to find people out.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I give you something to find out for me while I am away?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes, do; that is what I should like,” cried Sophy, with her -little mischievous eyes dancing. “And I will write<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> and tell you. But -then you must give me your address; I shall be the only one in the house -that knows your address; and I’ll tell you what they are all doing, -every one of them. There is nothing I should like so much,” Sophy cried. -She was so pleased with this idea that she forgot to ask what the -special information required by her future correspondent was.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Rosalind sat among the flowers, hearing the distant sound of -their voices, with her heart beating and all the color and brightness -round flickering unsteadily in her eyes. She did not know what she had -done, or if she had done anything; if she had pledged herself, or if she -were still free.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> happened after these events that sickness crept into Mrs. Lennox’s -cheerful house. One of the children had a lingering fever; and Aunt -Sophy herself was troubled with headaches, and not up to the mark, the -doctor said. This no doubt arose, according to the infallible decrees of -sanitary science, from some deficiency in the drainage, notwithstanding -that a great deal of trouble had already been taken, and that a local -functionary and expert in such matters had been almost resident in the -house for some months, to set right these sources of all evil. As soon, -however, as it was understood that for the sixth or seventh time the -house would have to be undermined, Mrs. Lennox came to a resolution -which, as she said, she had “always intended;” and that was to “go -abroad.” To go abroad is a thing which recommends itself to most women -as an infallible mode of procuring pleasure. They may not like it when -they are there. Foreign “ways” may be a weariness to their souls, and -foreign languages a series of unholy mysteries which they do not attempt -to fathom; but going abroad is a panacea for all dulness and a good many -maladies. The Englishwoman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> of simple mind is sure that she will be -warmed and soothed, that the sun will always shine, the skies never -rain, and everything go to her wish “abroad.” She returns discontented; -but she goes away always hopeful, scarcely able to conceive that gray -skies and cold winds prevail anywhere except in her own island. Mrs. -Lennox was of this simple-minded order. When she was driven to the -depths of her recollection she could, indeed, remember a great many -instances to the contrary, but in the abstract she felt that these were -accidents, and, the likelihood was, would never occur again. And then it -would be so good for the children! They would learn languages without -knowing, without any trouble at all. With this happy persuasion English -families every day convey their hapless babes into the depths of -Normandy, for example, to learn French. Mrs. Lennox went to the Riviera, -as was inevitable, and afterwards to other places, thinking it as well, -as she said, while they were abroad, to see as much as possible. It was -no small business to get the little caravansary under way, and when it -was accomplished it may be doubted how much advantage it was to the -children for whose good, according to Aunt Sophy, the journey was -prolonged. Little Amy and Johnny wandered with big eyes after the nurse -who had replaced Russell, through Rome and Florence, and gazed alarmed -at the towers of Bologna, which the children thought were falling upon -them, without deriving very much instruction from the sight.</p> - -<p>It was a thoroughly English party, like many another, carrying its own -little atmosphere about it and all its insular customs. The first thing -they did on arriving at a new place was to establish a little England in -the foreign hotel or <i>chambres garnies</i> which they occupied. The -sitting-room at the inn took at once a kind of <i>faux</i> air of the -dining-room at the Elms, Mrs. Lennox’s work and her basket of crewels -and her footstool being placed in the usual exact order, and a -writing-table arranged for the family letters in the same light as that -approved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> at home. And then there were elaborate arrangements for the -nursery dinner at a proper nursery hour, and for roast mutton and rice -pudding, such as were fit food for British subjects of the age of nine -and seven. Then the whereabouts of the English church was inquired into, -and the English chemist, and the bookshop where English books, and -especially the editions of Baron Tauchnitz, and perhaps English -newspapers, might be had. Having ascertained all this, and to the best -of her power obliterated all difference between Cannes, or Genoa, or -Florence, or even Rome, and the neighborhood of Clifton, Mrs. Lennox -began to enjoy herself in a mild way. She took her daily drive, and -looked at the Italians from her carriage with a certain disapproval, -much curiosity, and sometimes amusement. She disapproved of them because -they were not English, in a general way. She was too sweet-tempered to -conclude, as some of the ladies did whom she met at the hotel, that they -were universally liars, cheats, and extortioners; but they were not -English; though, perhaps, poor things, that was not exactly their fault.</p> - -<p>This was how she travelled, and in a sober way enjoyed it. She thought -the Riviera very pretty, if there were not so many sick people about; -and Florence very pretty too. “But I have been here before, you know, my -dear,” she said; therefore her admiration was calm, and never rose into -any of the raptures with which Rosalind sometimes was roused by a new -landscape. She lived just as she would have done if she had never -stirred from home, and was moderately happy, as happy as a person of her -age has any right to be. The children came to her at the same hours, -they had their dinner and walk at the same hours, and they all went to -church on Sunday just in the same way. The <i>table d’hôte</i>, at which she -usually dined with Rosalind, was the only difference of importance -between her life as a traveller and her life at home. She thought it was -rather like a dinner-party without the trouble, and as she soon got to -know a select little “set” of English of her own condition<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> in her -hotel, and sat with them, the public table grew more and more like a -private one, except in so far as that all the guests had the delightful -privilege of finding fault. The clergyman called upon her, and made -little appeals to her for deserving cases, and pleaded that Rosalind -should help in the music, and talked the talk of a small parish to her -contented ears. All this made her very much at home, while still -enjoying the gentle excitement of being abroad. And at the end of six -months Mrs. Lennox began to feel that she was quite a cosmopolitan, able -to adapt herself to all circumstances, and getting the full good of -foreign travel, which, as she declared she was doing it entirely for the -children, was a repayment of her goodness upon which she had not -calculated. “I feel quite a woman of the world,” was what Aunt Sophy -said.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, however, Rosalind, placed as she was between the children and -their guardian, neither too old nor too young for such enjoyment, was, -as lawyers say, the true beneficiary. She had the disadvantage of -visiting a great many places of interest with companions who did not -appreciate or understand them, it is true; with Aunt Sophy, who thought -that the pictures as well as the views were pretty; and with the sharp -little sister who thought picture-galleries and mountain landscapes -equally a bore. But, notwithstanding, with that capacity for separating -herself from her surroundings which belongs to the young, Rosalind was -able to get a great deal of enjoyment as she moved along in Mrs. -Lennox’s train. Aunts in general are not expected to care for scenery; -they care for being comfortable, for getting their meals, and especially -the children’s meals, at the proper time, and being as little disturbed -in their ordinary routine as possible. When this is fully granted, a -girl can usually manage to get a good deal of pleasure under their -portly shadow. Rosalind saw everything as if nobody had ever seen it -before; the most hackneyed scenes were newly created for her, and came -upon her with a surprise almost more delightful than anything in life, -certainly more delightful than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> anything that did not immediately -concern the heart and affections. She thought, indeed, sometimes -wistfully, that if it had been her mother, that never-to-be-forgotten -and always trusted friend, who could have understood everything and felt -with her, and added a charm wherever they went, the enjoyment would have -been far greater. But then her heart would fall into painful questions -as to where and with what companions that friend might now be, and rise -into prayers, sometimes that they might meet to-morrow, sometimes that -they might never meet—that nothing which could diminish her respect and -devotion should ever be made known to her. Then, too, sometimes Rosalind -would ask herself, in the leisure of her solitude, what this journey -might have been had <i>some one else</i> been of the party? This <i>some one -else</i> was not Roland Hamerton: that was certain. She could not say to -herself, either, that it was Arthur Rivers. It was—well, some one with -great eyes, dark and liquid, whose power of vision would be more -refined, more educated than that of Rosalind, who would know all the -associations and all the poetry, and make everything that was beautiful -before more beautiful by the charm of his superior knowledge. Perhaps -she felt, too, that it was more modest, more maidenly, to allow a -longing for the companionship of one whom she did not know, who was a -mere ideal, the symbol of love, or genius, or poetry, she did not know -which, than to wish in straightforward terms for the lover whom she -knew, who was a man, and not a symbol. Her imagination was too shy, too -proud, to summon up an actual person, substantial and well known. It was -more easy and simple, more possible, to fill that fancy with an image -that had no actual embodiment, and to call to her side the being who was -nothing more than a recollection, whose very name and everything about -him was unknown to her. She accepted him as a symbol of all that a -dreaming girl desires in a companion. He was a dream; there need be no -bounds to the enthusiasm, the poetry, the fine imagination, with which -she endowed him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> any more than there need be to the devotion to -herself, which was a mere dream also. He might woo her as men only woo -in the imagination of girls, so delicately, so tenderly, with such -ethereal worship. How different the most glorious road would be were he -beside her! though in reality he was beside her all the way, saying -things which were finer than anything but fancy, breathing the very soul -of rapture into her being. The others knew nothing of all this; how -should they? And Mrs. Lennox, for one, sometimes asked herself whether -Rosalind was really enjoying her travels. “She says so little,” that -great authority said.</p> - -<p>There was, however, little danger that she should forget one, at least, -of her actual lovers. In the meantime a great deal had been going on in -the world, and especially in that distant part of it to which Rivers had -gone. The little war which he had gone to report had turned into a most -exciting and alarming one; and there had been days in which the whole -world, so to speak—all England at least, and her dependencies—had hung -upon his utterance, and looked for his communications every morning -almost before they looked at those which came from their nearest and -dearest. And it was said that he had excelled himself in these -communications. He had done things which were heroic, if not to hasten -the conclusion of the war, to make it successful, yet at least to convey -the earliest intelligence of any new action, and to make people at home -feel as if they were present upon the very field, spectators of all the -movements there.</p> - -<p>This service involved him in as much danger as if he had been in the -very front of the fighting; and, indeed, he was known to have done -feats, for what is called the advantage of the public, to which the -stand made by a mere soldier, even in the most urgent circumstances, was -not to be compared. All this was extremely interesting, not to say -exciting, to his friends. Mrs. Lennox had the paper sent after her -wherever she travelled; and, indeed, it was great part of her day’s -occupation to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> read it, which she did with devotion. “The correspondent -is a friend of ours,” she said to the other English people in the -hotels. “We know him, I may say, very well, and naturally I take a great -interest.” The importance of his position as the author of those letters -which interested everybody, and even the familiar way in which he talked -of generals and commanders-in-chief, impressed her profoundly. As for -Rosalind, she said nothing, but she, too, read all about the war with an -attention which was breathless, not quite sure in her mind that it was -not under a general’s helmet that those crisp locks of gray were -curling, or that the vivid eyes which had looked into hers with such -expression were not those of the hero of the campaign. It did not seem -possible, somehow, that he could be less than a general. She took the -paper to her room in the evening, when Aunt Sophy had done with it, and -read and read. The charm was upon her that moved Desdemona, and it was -difficult to remember that the teller of the tale was not the chief -mover in it. How could she help but follow him in his wanderings -wherever he went? It was the least thing she could do in return for what -he had given to her—for that passion which had made her tremble—which -she wondered at and admired as if it had been poetry. All this -captivated the girl’s fancy in spite of herself, and gave her an -extraordinary interest in everything he said, and that was said of him. -But, notwithstanding, it was not Mr. Rivers who accompanied her in the -spirit on all the journeys she made, and to all the beautiful places -which filled her with rapture. Not Mr. Rivers—a visionary person, one -whose very name was to her unknown.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> events of the night on which Mrs. Trevanion left Highcourt had at -this period of the family story fallen into that softened oblivion which -covers the profoundest scars of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> heart after a certain passage of -time, except sometimes to the chief actor in such scenes, who naturally -takes a longer period to forget.</p> - -<p>She on whom the blow had fallen at a moment when she was unprepared for -it, when a faint sense of security had begun to steal over her in spite -of herself, had received it <i>en plein cœur</i>, as the French say. We have -no word which expresses so well the unexpected, unmitigated shock. She -had said to herself, like the captive king in the Bible, that the -bitterness of death was past, and had gone, like that poor prince, -“delicately,” with undefended bosom, and heart hushed out of its first -alarms, to meet her fate. The blow had gone through her very flesh, -rending every delicate tissue before she had time to think. It does not -even seem a metaphor to say that it broke her heart, or, rather, cut the -tender structure sheer in two, leaving it bleeding, quivering, in her -bosom. She was not a woman to faint or die at a stroke. She took the -torture silently, without being vanquished by it. When nature is strong -within us, and the force of life great, there is no pang spared. And -while in one sense it was true that for the moment she expected nothing, -the instantly following sensation in Madam’s mind was that she had known -all along what was going to happen to her, and that it had never been -but certain that this must come. Even the details of the scene seemed -familiar. She had always known that some time or other these men would -look at her so, would say just those words to her, and that she would -stand and bear it all, a victim appointed from the beginning. In the -greater miseries of life it happens often that the catastrophe, however -unexpected, bears, when it comes, a familiar air, as of a thing which -has been mysteriously rehearsed in our consciousness all our lives. -After the first shock, her mind sprang with a bound to those immediate -attempts to find a way of existence on the other side of the impossible, -which was the first impulse of the vigorous soul. She said little even -to Jane until the dreary afternoon was over, the dinner, with its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> -horrible formulas, and she had said what was really her farewell to -everything at Highcourt. Then, when the time approached for the meeting -in the park, she began to prepare for going out with a solemnity which -startled her faithful attendant. She took from her desk a sum which she -had kept in reserve (who can tell for what possibility?), and dressed -herself carefully, not in her new mourning, with all its crape, but in -simple black from head to foot. She always had worn a great deal of -black lace; it had been her favorite costume always. She enveloped -herself in a great veil which would have fallen almost to her feet had -it been unfolded, doing everything for herself, seeking the things she -wanted in her drawers with a silent diligence which Jane watched with -consternation. At last the maid could restrain herself no longer.</p> - -<p>“Am I to do nothing for you?” she cried, with anguish. “And, oh! where -are you going? What are you doing? There’s something more than I -thought.”</p> - -<p>“You are to do everything for me, Jane,” her mistress said, with a -pathetic smile. “You are to be my sole companion all the rest of my -life—unless, if it is not too late, that poor boy.”</p> - -<p>“Madam,” Jane said, putting her hand to her heart with a natural tragic -movement, “you are not going to desert—the children? Oh, no! you are -not thinking of leaving the children?”</p> - -<p>Her mistress put her hands upon Jane’s shoulders, clutching her, and -gave vent to a low laugh more terrible than any cry. “It is more -wonderful than that—more wonderful—more, ah, more ridiculous. Don’t -cry. I can’t bear it. They have sent me away. Their father—has sent me -away!”</p> - -<p>“Madam!” Jane’s shriek would have rung through the house had it not been -for Madam’s imperative gesture and the hand she placed upon her mouth.</p> - -<p>“Not a word! Not a word! I have not told you before, for I cannot bear a -word. It is true, and nothing can be done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> Dress yourself now, and put -what we want for the night in your bag. I will take nothing. Oh, that is -a small matter, a very small matter, to provide all that will be wanted -for two poor women. Do you remember, Jane, how we came here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, well, Madam. You a beautiful bride, and nothing too much for -you, nothing good enough for you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Jane; but leaving my duty behind me. And now it is repaid.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam, Madam! He was too young to know the loss; and it was for his -own sake. And besides, if that were all, it’s long, long ago—long, long -ago.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion’s hands dropped by her side. She turned away with another -faint laugh of tragic mockery. “It is long, long ago; long enough to -change everything. Ah, not so long ago but that he remembers it, Jane. -And now the time is come when I am free, if I can, to make it up. I have -always wondered if the time would ever come when I could try to make it -up.”</p> - -<p>“Madam, you have never failed to him, except in not having him with -you.”</p> - -<p>“Except in all that was my duty, Jane. He has known no home, no care, no -love. Perhaps now, if it should not be too late—”</p> - -<p>And then she resumed her preparations with that concentrated calm of -despair which sometimes apes ordinary composure so well as to deceive -the lookers-on. Jane could not understand what was her lady’s meaning. -She followed her about with anxious looks, doing nothing on her own part -to aid, paralyzed by the extraordinary suggestion. Madam was fully -equipped before Jane had stirred, except to follow wistfully every step -Mrs. Trevanion took.</p> - -<p>“Are you not coming?” she said at length. “Am I to go alone? For the -first time in our lives do you mean to desert me, Jane?”</p> - -<p>“Madam,” cried the woman, “it cannot be—it cannot be!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> You must be -dreaming; we cannot go without the children.” She stood wringing her -hands, beyond all capacity of comprehension, thinking her mistress mad -or criminal, or under some great delusion—she could not tell which.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion looked at her with strained eyes that were past tears. -“Why,” she said, “why—did you not say so seventeen years ago, Jane?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam,” cried Jane, seizing her mistress by the hands, “don’t do it -another time! They are all so young, they want you. It can’t do them any -good, but only harm, if you go away. Oh, Madam, listen to me that loves -you. Who have I but you in the world? But don’t leave them. Oh, don’t we -both know the misery it brings? You may be doing it thinking it will -make up. But God don’t ask these kind of sacrifices,” she cried, the -tears running down her cheeks. “<i>He</i> don’t ask it. He says, mind your -duty now, whatever’s been done in the past. Don’t try to be making up -for it, the Lord says, Madam; but just do your duty now; it’s all that -we can do.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion listened to this address, which was made with streaming -eyes and a face quivering with emotion, in silence. She kept her eyes -fixed on Jane’s face as if the sight of the tears was a refreshment to -her parched soul. Her own eyes were dry, with that smile in them which -answers at some moments in place of weeping.</p> - -<p>“You cut me to the heart,” she said, “every word. Oh, but I am not -offering God any vain sacrifices, thinking to atone. He has taken it -into his own hand. Life repeats itself, though we never think so. What I -did once for my own will God makes me do over again not of my own will. -He has his meaning clear through all, but I don’t know what it is, I -cannot fathom it.” She said this quickly, with the settled quietness of -despair. Then, the lines of her countenance melting, her eyes lit up -with a forlorn entreaty, as she touched Jane on the shoulder, and asked, -“Are you coming? You will not let me go alone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam, wherever you go—wherever you go! I have never done anything -but follow you. I can neither live nor die without you,” Jane answered, -hurriedly; and then, turning away, tied on her bonnet with trembling -hands. Madam had done everything else; she had left nothing for Jane to -provide. They went out together, no longer alarmed to be seen—two dark -figures, hurrying down the great stairs. But the languor that follows -excitement had got into the house: there were no watchers about; the -whole place seemed deserted. She, who that morning had been the mistress -of Highcourt, went out of the home of so many years without a soul to -mark her going or bid her good-speed. But the anguish of the parting was -far too great to leave room for any thought of the details. They stepped -out into the night, into the dark, to the sobbing of the wind and the -wildly blowing trees. The storm outside gave them a little relief from -that which was within.</p> - -<p>Madam went swiftly, softly along, with that power of putting aside the -overwhelming consciousness of wretchedness which is possessed by those -whose appointed measure of misery is the largest in this world. To die -then would have been best, but not to be helpless and encounter the pity -of those who could give no aid. She had the power not to think, to -address herself to what was before her, and hold back “upon the -threshold of the mind” the supreme anguish of which she could never be -free, which there would be time enough, alas! and to spare, to indulge -in. Perhaps, though she knew so much and was so experienced in pain, it -did not occur to her at this terrible crisis of life to think it -possible that any further pang might be awaiting her. The other, who -waited for her within shade of the copse, drew back when he perceived -that two people were coming towards him. He scarcely responded even when -Mrs. Trevanion called him in a low voice by name. “Whom have you got -with you?” he said, almost in a whisper, holding himself concealed among -the trees.</p> - -<p>“Only Jane.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span></p> - -<p>“Only Jane,” he said, in a tone of relief, but still with a roughness -and sullenness out of keeping with his youthful voice. He added, after a -moment, “What does Jane want? I hope there is not going to be any -sentimental leave-taking. I want to stay and not to go.”</p> - -<p>“That is impossible now. Everything is altered. I am going with you, -Edmund.”</p> - -<p>“Going with me—good Lord!” There was a moment’s silence; then he -resumed in a tone of satire, “What may that be for? Going with <i>me</i>! Do -you think I can’t take care of myself? Do you think I want a nurse at my -heels?” Then another pause. “I know what you mean. You are going away -for a change, and you mean me to turn up easily and be introduced to the -family? Not a bad idea at all,” he added, in a patronizing tone.</p> - -<p>“Edmund,” she said, “afterwards, when we have time, I will tell you -everything. There is no time now; but that has come about which I -thought impossible. I am—free to make up to you as much as I can, for -the past—”</p> - -<p>“Free,” he repeated, with astonishment, “to make up to me?” The pause -that followed seemed one of consternation. Then he went on roughly, “I -don’t know what you mean by making up to me. I have often heard that -women couldn’t reason. You don’t mean that you are flinging over the -others now, to make a romance—and balance matters? I don’t know what -you mean.”</p> - -<p>Madam Trevanion grasped Jane’s arm and leaned upon it with what seemed a -sudden collapse of strength, but this was invisible to the other, who -probably was unaware of any effect produced by what he said. Her voice -came afterwards through the dark with a thrill in it that seemed to move -the air, something more penetrating than the wind.</p> - -<p>“I have no time to explain,” she said. “I must husband my strength, -which has been much tried. I am going with you to London to-night. We -have a long walk before we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> reach the train. On the way, or afterwards, -as my strength serves me, I will tell you—all that has happened. What I -am doing,” she added, faintly, “is by no will of mine.”</p> - -<p>“To London to-night?” he repeated, with astonishment. “I am not going to -London to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Edmund, with me. I want you.”</p> - -<p>“I have wanted,” he said, “you—or, at least, I have wanted my proper -place and the people I belonged to, all my life. If you think that now, -when I am a man, I am to be burdened with two women always at my -heels— Why can’t you stay and make everything comfortable here? I want -my rights, but I don’t want you—more than is reasonable,” he added -after a moment, slightly struck by his own ungraciousness. “As for -walking to the train, and going to London to-night—you, a fine lady, -that have always driven about in your carriage!” He gave a hoarse little -laugh at the ridiculous suggestion.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion again clutched Jane’s arm. It was the only outlet for her -excitement. She said very low, “I should not have expected better—oh, -no; how could he know better, after all! But I must go, there is no -choice. Edmund, if anything I can do now can blot out the past—no, not -that—but make up for it. You too, you have been very tyrannical to me -these months past. Hush! let me speak, it is quite true. If you could -have had patience, all might have been so different. Let us not upbraid -each other—but if you will let me, all that I can do for you now—all -that is possible—”</p> - -<p>There was another pause. Jane, standing behind, supported her mistress -in her outstretched arms, but this was not apparent, nor any other sign -of weakness, except that her voice quivered upon the dark air which was -still in the shadow of the copse.</p> - -<p>“I have told you,” he said, “again and again, what would please me. We -can’t be much devoted to each other, can we, after all! We can’t be a -model of what’s affectionate. That was all very well when I was a child, -when I thought a present<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> was just as good, or better. But now I know -what is what, and that something more is wanted. Why can’t you stay -still where you are and send for me? You can say I’m a relation. I don’t -want you to sacrifice yourself—what good will that do me? I want to get -the advantage of my relations, to know them all, and have my chance. -There’s one thing I’ve set my heart upon, and you could help me in that -if you liked. But to run away, good Lord! what good would that do? It’s -all for effect, I suppose, to make me think you are willing now to do a -deal for me. You can do a deal for me if you like, but it will be by -staying, not by running away.”</p> - -<p>“Jane,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “he does not understand me; how should he? -you did not understand me at first. It is not that he means anything. -And how can I tell him?—not here, I am not able. After, when we are far -away, when I am out of reach, when I have got a little—strength—”</p> - -<p>“Madam!” said Jane, “if it is true, if you have to do it, if we must go -to-night, don’t stand and waste all the little strength you have got -standing here.”</p> - -<p>He listened to this conversation with impatience, yet with a growing -sense that something lay beneath which would confound his hopes. He was -not sympathetic with her trouble. How could he have been so? Had not her -ways been contrary to his all his life? But a vague dread crept over -him. He had thought himself near the object of his hopes, and now -disappointment seemed to overshadow him. He looked angrily, with -vexation and gathering dismay, at the dark figures of the two women, one -leaning against the other. What did she mean now? How was she going to -baffle him this time—she who had been contrary to him all his life?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was a long walk through the wind and blasts of rain, and the country -roads were very dark and wet—not a night for a woman to be out in, much -less a lady used to drive everywhere in her carriage, as he had said, -and less still for one whose strength had been wasted by long -confinement in a sick-room, and whose very life was sapped by secret -pain. But these things, which made it less possible for Mrs. Trevanion -to bear the fatigues to which she was exposed, reacted on the other -side, and made her unconscious of the lesser outside evils which were as -nothing in comparison with the real misery from which no expedient could -set her free. She went along mechanically, conscious of a fatigue and -aching which were almost welcome—which lulled a little the other misery -which lay somewhere awaiting her, waiting for the first moment of -leisure, the time when she should be clear-headed enough to understand -and feel it all to the fullest. When they came into the light at the -nearest railway station the two women were alone. They got into an empty -carriage and placed themselves each in a corner, and, like St. Paul, -wished for day; but yet the night was welcome too, giving their -proceedings an air of something strange and out of all the habits of -their life, which partially, momentarily, confused the every-day aspect -of things around, and made this episode in existence all unnatural and -unreal. It was morning, the dark, grim morning of winter, without light -or color, when Mrs. Trevanion suddenly spoke for the first time. She -said, as if thinking aloud, “It was not to be expected. Why should he, -when he knows so little of me?” as if reasoning with herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span></p> - -<p>“No, Madam,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“If he had been like others, accustomed to these restraints—for no -doubt it is a restraint—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, Madam.”</p> - -<p>“And perhaps with time and use,” she said, sighing and faltering.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Madam,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say no and yes,” she cried, with sudden vehemence, “as if -you had no opinion of your own?”</p> - -<p>Then Jane faltered too. “Madam,” she said, “everything is to be hoped -from—time, as you say, and use—”</p> - -<p>“You don’t think so,” her mistress replied, with a moan, and then all -settled into silence again.</p> - -<p>It is not supposed that anything save vulgar speed and practical -convenience is to be got from the railway; and yet there is nothing that -affords a better refuge and shelter from the painful thoughts that -attend a great catastrophe in life, and those consultations which an -individual in deep trouble holds with himself, than a long, silent -journey at the desperate pace of an express train over the long, dark -sweeps of the scarcely visible country, with the wind of rapid progress -in one’s face. That complete separation from all disturbance, the din -that partially deadens in our ears the overwhelming commotion of brain -and heart, the protection which is afforded by the roar and sweep of hot -haste which holds us as in a sanctuary of darkness, peace, and solitude, -is a paradox of every-day life which few think of, yet which is grateful -to many. Mrs. Trevanion sank into it with a sensation which was almost -ease. She lay back in her corner, as a creature wounded to death lies -still after the anguish of medical care is ended, throbbing, indeed, -with inevitable pain, yet with all horror of expectation over, and -nothing further asked of the sufferer. If not the anguish, at least the -consciousness of anguish was deadened by the sense that here no one -could demand anything from her, any response, any look, any word. She -lay for a long time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> dumb even in thought, counting the throbs that went -through her, feeling the sting and smart of every wound, yet a little -eased by the absolute separation between her and everything that could -ask a question or suggest a thought. It is not necessary for us in such -terrible moments to think over our pangs. The sufferer lies piteously -contemplating the misery that holds him, almost glad to be left alone -with it. For the most terrible complications of human suffering there is -no better image still than that with which the ancients portrayed the -anguish of Prometheus on his rock. There he lies, bound and helpless, -bearing evermore the rending of the vulture’s beak, sometimes writhing -in his bonds, uttering hoarsely the moan of his appeal to earth and -heaven, crying out sometimes the horrible cry of an endurance past -enduring, anon lying silent, feeling the dew upon him, hearing soft -voices of pity, comforters that tell him of peace to come, sometimes -softening, sometimes only increasing his misery; but through all -unending, never intermitting, the pain—“pain, ever, forever” of that -torture from which there is no escape. In all its moments of impatience, -in all its succumbings, the calm of anguish which looks like -resignation, the struggle with the unbearable which looks like -resistance, the image is always true. We lie bound and cannot escape. We -listen to what is said about us, the soft consoling of nature, the -voices of the comforters. Great heavenly creatures come and sit around -us, and talk together of the recovery to come; but meanwhile without a -pause the heart quivers and bleeds, the cruel grief tears us without -intermission. “Ah me, alas, pain, ever, forever!”</p> - -<p>If ever human soul had occasion for such a consciousness it was this -woman, cut off in a moment from all she loved best—from her children, -from her home, from life itself and honor, and all that makes life dear. -Her good name, the last possession which, shipwrecked in every other, -the soul in ruin and dismay may still derive some miserable satisfaction -from, had to be yielded too. A faint smile came upon her face, the -profoundest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> expression of suffering, when this thought, like another -laceration, separated itself from the crowd. A little more or less, was -that not a thing to be smiled at? What could it matter? All that could -be done to her was done; her spiritual tormentors had no longer the -power to give her another sensation; she had exhausted all their -tortures. Her good name, and that even in the knowledge of her children! -She smiled. Evil had done its worst. She was henceforward superior to -any torture, as knowing all that pain could do.</p> - -<p>There are some minds to which death is not a thought which is possible, -or a way of escape which ever suggests itself. Hamlet, in his musings, -in the sickness of his great soul, passes it indeed in review, but -rejects it as an unworthy and ineffectual expedient. And it is seldom -that a worthy human creature, when not at the outside verge of life, can -afford to die. There is always something to do which keeps every such -possibility in the background. To this thought after a time Mrs. -Trevanion came round. She had a great deal to do; she had still a -duty—a responsibility—was it perhaps a possibility, in life? There -existed for her still one bond, a bond partially severed for long, -apparently dropped out of her existence, yet never forgotten. The brief -dialogue which she had held with Jane had betrayed the condition of her -thoughts in respect to this one relationship which was left to her, as -it betrayed also the judgment of Jane on the subject. Both of these -women knew in their hearts that the young man who was now to be the only -interest of their lives had little in him which corresponded with any -ideal. He had not been kind, he had not been true; he thought of nothing -but himself, and yet he was all that now remained to make, to the woman -upon whom his folly had brought so many and terrible losses, the -possibility of a new life. When she saw the cold glimmer of the dawn, -and heard the beginnings of that sound of London, which stretches so far -round the centre on every side, Mrs. Trevanion awoke again to the living -problem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> which now was to occupy her wholly. She had been guilty towards -him almost all his life, and she had been punished by his means; but -perhaps it might be that there was still for her a place of repentance. -She had much to do for him, and not a moment to lose. She had the power -to make up to him now for all the neglect of the past. Realizing what he -was, unlike her in thought, in impulse, in wishes, a being who belonged -to her, yet who in heart and soul was none of hers, she rose up from the -terrible vigil of this endless night, to make her life henceforward the -servant of his, its guardian perhaps, its guide perhaps, but in any case -subject to it, as a woman at all times is subject to those for whom she -lives. She spoke again, when they were near their arrival, to her maid, -as if they had continued the subject throughout the night: “He will be -sure to follow us to-morrow night, Jane.”</p> - -<p>“I think so, Madam, for he will have nothing else to do.”</p> - -<p>“It was natural,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that he should hesitate to come -off in a moment. Why should he, indeed? There was nothing to break the -shock to him—as there was to us—”</p> - -<p>“To break the shock?” Jane murmured, with a look of astonishment.</p> - -<p>“You know what I mean,” her mistress said, with a little impatience. -“When things happen like the things that have happened, one does not -think very much of a midnight journey. Ah, what a small matter that is! -But one who has—nothing to speak of on his mind—”</p> - -<p>“He ought to have a great deal on his mind,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“Ought! Yes, I suppose I ought to be half dead, and, on the contrary, I -am revived by the night journey. I am able for anything. There is no -ought in such matters—it is according to your strength.”</p> - -<p>“You have not slept a wink,” said Jane, in an injured voice.</p> - -<p>“There are better things than sleep. And he is young,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> and has not -learned yet the lesson that I have had such difficulty in learning.”</p> - -<p>“What lesson is that?” said Jane, quickly. “If it is to think of -everything and every one’s business, you have been indeed a long time -learning, for you have been at it all your life.”</p> - -<p>“It takes a long time to learn,” said Madam, with a smile; “the young do -not take it in so easily. Come, Jane, we are arriving; we must think now -of our new way of living.”</p> - -<p>“Madam,” cried Jane, “if there had been an earthquake at Highcourt, and -we had both perished in it trying to save the children—”</p> - -<p>“Jane! do you think it is wise when you are in great trouble to fix your -thoughts upon the greatest happiness in the world? To have perished at -Highcourt, you and me, trying—” Her face shone for a moment with a -great radiance. “You are a good woman,” she said, shaking her head, with -a smile, “but why should there be a miracle to save me? It is a miracle -to give me the chance of making up—for what is past.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam, I wish I knew what to say to you,” cried Jane; “you will -just try your strength and make yourself miserable, and get no return.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion laughed with a strange solemnity. She looked before her -into the vacant air, as if looking in the face of fate. What could make -her miserable now? Nothing—the worst that could be done had been done. -She said, but to herself, not to Jane, “There is an advantage in it, it -cannot be done over again.” Then she began to prepare for the arrival. -“We shall have a great deal to do, and we must lose no time. Jane, you -will go at once and provide some clothes for us. Whatever happens, we -must have clothes, and we must have food, you know. The other -things—life can go on without—”</p> - -<p>“Madam, for God’s sake, do not smile, it makes my blood run cold.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span></p> - -<p>“Would you like me to cry, Jane? I might do that, too, but what the -better should we be? If I were to cry all to-day and to-morrow, the -moment would come when I should have to stop and smile again. And then,” -she said, turning hastily upon her faithful follower, “I can’t cry—I -can’t cry!” with a spasm of anguish going over her face. “Besides, we -are just arriving,” she added, after a moment; “we must not call for -remark. You and I, we are two poor women setting out upon the -world—upon a forlorn hope. Yes, that is it—upon a forlorn hope. We -don’t look like heroes, but that is what we are going to do, without any -banners flying, or music, but a good heart, Jane—a good heart!”</p> - -<p>With these words, she stepped out upon the crowded pavement at the great -London station. It was a very early hour in the morning, and there were -few people except the travellers and the porters about. They had no -luggage, which was a thing that confused Jane, and made her ashamed to -the bottom of her heart. She answered the questions of the porter with a -confused consciousness of something half disgraceful in their denuded -condition, and gave her bag into his hands with a shrinking and -trembling which made the poor soul, pallid with unaccustomed travelling, -and out of her usual prim order, look like a furtive fugitive. She half -thought the man looked at her as if she were a criminal escaping from -justice. Jane was ashamed: she thought the people in the streets looked -at the cab as it rattled out of the station with suspicion and surprise. -She looked forward to the arrival at the hotel with a kind of horror. -What would people think? Jane felt the real misery of the catastrophe -more than any one except the chief sufferer: she looked forward to the -new life about to begin with dismay; but nevertheless, at this miserable -moment, to come to London without luggage gave her the deepest pang of -all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Trevanion</span> remained for some time in London, where she was joined -reluctantly, after a few days, by Edmund. This young man had not been -educated on the level of Highcourt. He had been sent to a cheap school. -He had never known any relations, nor had any culture of the affections -to refine his nature. From his school, as soon as he was old enough, he -had been transferred to an office in Liverpool, where all the -temptations and attractions of the great town had burst upon him without -defence. Many young men have to support this ordeal, and even for those -who do not come through it without scathe, it is yet possible to do so -without ruinous loss and depreciation. But in that case the aberration -must be but temporary, and there must be a higher ideal behind to defend -the mind against that extinction of all belief in what is good which is -the most horrible result of vicious living. Whether Edmund fell into the -absolute depths of vice at all it is not necessary to inquire. He fell -into debt, and into unlawful ways of making up for his debts. When -discovery was not to be staved off any longer he had fled, not even then -touched with any compunction or shame, but with a strong certainty that -the matter against him would never be allowed to come to a public issue, -it being so necessary to the credit of the family that his relations -with Highcourt should never be made known to the world. It was with this -certainty that he had come to the village near Highcourt at the -beginning of Mr. Trevanion’s last illness. To prevent him from bursting -into her husband’s presence, and bringing on one of the attacks which -sapped his strength, Mrs. Trevanion had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> yielded to his demands on her, -and, as these increased daily, had exposed herself to remark and -scandal, and, as it proved, to ruin and shame. Did she think of that as -he sat opposite to her at the table, affording reluctantly the -information she insisted upon, betraying by almost every word a mind so -much out of tune with hers that the bond which connected them seemed -impossible? If she did think of this it was with the bitterest -self-reproach, rather than any complaint of him. “Poor boy,” she said to -herself, with her heart bleeding. She had informed him of the -circumstances under which she had left home, but without a word of blame -or intimation that the fault was his, and received what were really his -reproaches on this matter silently, with only that heart-breaking smile -in her eyes, which meant indulgence unbounded, forgiveness beforehand of -anything he might do or say. When Russell, breathing hatred and -hostility, came across her path, it was with the same sentiment that -Madam had succored the woman who had played so miserable a part in the -catastrophe. The whole history of the event was so terrible that she -could bear no comment upon it. Even Jane did not venture to speak to her -of the past. She was calm, almost cheerful, in what she was doing at the -moment, and she had a great deal to do.</p> - -<p>The first step she took was one which Edmund opposed with all his might, -with a hundred arguments more or less valid, and a mixture of terror and -temerity which it humiliated her to be a witness of. He was ready to -abandon all possibility of after-safety or of recovery of character, to -fly as a criminal to the ends of the earth, or to keep in hiding in -holes and corners, liable to be seized upon at any moment; but to take -any step to atone for what he had done, to restore the money, or attempt -to recover the position of a man innocent, or at least forgiven, were -suggestions that filled him with passion. He declared that such an -attempt would be ineffectual, that it would end by landing him in -prison, that it was madness to think she could do anything. She! so -entirely ignorant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> of business as she was. He ended, indeed, by -denouncing her as his certain ruin, when, in spite of all these -arguments, she set out for Liverpool, and left him in a paroxysm of -angry terror, forgetting both respect and civility in the passion of -opposition. Madam Trevanion did not shrink from this any more than from -the other fits of passion to which she had been exposed in her life. She -went to Liverpool alone, without even the company and support of Jane. -And there she found her mission not without difficulty. But the aspect -of the woman to whom fate had done its worst, who was not conscious of -the insignificant pain of a rebuff from a stranger, she who had borne -every anguish that could be inflicted upon a woman, had an impressive -influence which in the end triumphed over everything opposed to her. She -told the young man’s story with a composure from which it was impossible -to divine what her own share in it was, but with a pathos which touched -the heart of the master, who was not a hard man, and who knew the -dangers of such a youth better than she did. In the end she was -permitted to pay the money, and to release the culprit from all further -danger. Her success in this gave her a certain hope. As she returned her -mind went forward with something like a recollection of its old -elasticity, to what was at least a possibility in the future. Thus made -free, and with all the capacities of youth in him, might not some -softening and melting of the young man’s nature be hoped for—some -development of natural affection, some enlargement of life? She said to -herself that it might be so. He was not bad nor cruel—he was only -unaccustomed to love and care, careless, untrained to any higher -existence, unawakened to any better ideal. As she travelled back to -London she said to herself that he must have repented his passion, that -some compunction must have moved him, even, perhaps, some wish to atone. -“He will come to meet me,” she said to herself, with a forlorn movement -of anticipation in her mind. She felt so sure as she thought of this -expedient,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> by which he might show a wish to please her without bending -his pride to confess himself in the wrong, that when she arrived and, -amid the crowds at the railway, saw no one, her heart sank a little. But -in a moment she recovered, saying to herself, “Poor boy! why should he -come?” He had never been used to render such attentions. He was uneasy -in the new companionship, to which he was unaccustomed. Perhaps, indeed, -he was ashamed, wounded, mortified, by the poor part he played in it. To -owe his deliverance even to her might be humiliating to his pride. Poor -boy! Thus she explained and softened everything to herself.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Trevanion found herself now the subject of a succession of -surprises very strange to her. She was brought into intimate contact -with a nature she did not understand, and had to learn the very alphabet -of a language unknown to her, and study impulses which left all her -experience of human nature behind, and were absolutely new. When he -understood that he was free, that everything against him was wiped off, -that he was in a position superior to anything he had ever dreamed of, -without need to work or deny himself, his superficial despair gave way -to a burst of pleasure and self-congratulation. Even then he was on his -guard not to receive with too much satisfaction the advantages of which -he had in a moment become possessed, lest perhaps he should miss -something more that might be coming. The unbounded delight which filled -him when he found himself in London, with money in his pocket, and -freedom, showed itself, indeed, in every look; but he still kept a wary -eye upon the possibilities of the future, and would not allow that what -he possessed was above his requirements or hopes. And when he perceived -that the preparations for a further journey were by no means -interrupted, and that Mrs. Trevanion’s plan was still to go abroad, his -disappointment and vexation were not to be controlled.</p> - -<p>“What should you go abroad for?” he said. “We’re far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> better in London. -There is everything in London that can be desired. It is the right place -for a young fellow like me. I have never had any pleasure in my life, -nor the means of seeing anything. And here, the moment I have something -in my power, you want to rush away.”</p> - -<p>“There is a great deal to see on the other side of the Channel, Edmund.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say—among foreigners whose language one doesn’t know a word of. -And what is it, after all? Scenery, or pictures, and that sort of thing. -Whereas what I want to see is life.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with a strange understanding of all that she would -have desired to ignore, knowing what he meant by some incredible pang of -inspiration, though she had neither any natural acquaintance with such a -strain of thought nor any desire to divine it. “There is life -everywhere,” she said, “and I think it will be very good for you, -Edmund. You are not very strong, and there are so many things to learn.”</p> - -<p>“I see. You think, as I am, that I am not much credit to you, Mrs. -Trevanion, of Highcourt. But there might be different opinions about -that.” Offence brought a flush of color to his cheek. “Miss Trevanion, -of Highcourt, was not so difficult to please,” he added, with a laugh of -vanity. “She showed no particular objections to me; but you have ruined -me there, I suppose, once for all.”</p> - -<p>This attack left her speechless. She could not for the moment reply, but -only looked at him with that appeal in her eyes, to which, in the -assurance not only of his egotism, but of his total unacquaintance with -what was going on in her mind, her motives and ways of thinking, he was -utterly insensible. This, however, was only the first of many arguments -on the subject which filled those painful days. When he saw that the -preparations still went on, Edmund’s disgust was great.</p> - -<p>“I see Jane is still going on packing,” he said. “You don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> mind, then, -that I can’t bear it? What should you drag me away for? I am quite happy -here.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” she said, “you were complaining yourself that you have not -anything to do. You have no friends here.”</p> - -<p>“Nor anywhere,” said Edmund; “and whose fault is that?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is my fault. But that does not alter the fact, Edmund. If I -say that I am sorry, that is little, but still it does not mend it. In -Italy everything will amuse you.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing will amuse me,” said the young man. “I tell you I don’t care -for scenery. What I want to see is life.”</p> - -<p>“In travelling,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “you often make friends, and you -see how the people of other countries live, and you learn—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to learn,” he cried abruptly. “You are always harping upon -that. It is too late to go to school at my age. If I have no education -you must put up with it, for it is your fault. And what I want is to -stay here. London is the place to learn life and everything. And if you -tell me that you couldn’t get me plenty of friends, if you chose to -exert yourself, I don’t believe you. It’s because you won’t, not because -you can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Edmund!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t contradict me, for I know better. There is one thing I want -above all others, and I know you mean to go against me in that. If you -stay here quiet, you know very well they will come to town like -everybody else, for the season, and then you can introduce me. She knows -me already. The last time she saw me she colored up. She knew very well -what I was after. This has always been in my mind since the first time I -saw her with you. She is fond of you. She will be glad enough to come, -if it is even on the sly—”</p> - -<p>He was very quick to see when he had gone wrong, and the little cry that -came from her lips, the look that came over her face, warned him a -moment too late. He “colored up,” as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> said, crimson to the eyes, and -endeavored with an uneasy laugh to account for his slip. “The expression -may be vulgar,” he said, “but everybody uses it. And that’s about what -it would come to, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“You mistake me altogether, Edmund,” she said. “I will not see any one -on the sly, as you say; and especially not— Don’t wound me by suggesting -what is impossible. If I had not known that I had no alternative, can -you suppose I should have left them at all?”</p> - -<p>“That’s a different matter; you were obliged to do that; but nobody -could prevent you meeting them in the streets, seeing them as they pass, -saying ‘How do you do?’ introducing a relation—”</p> - -<p>She rose up, and began to pace about the room in great agitation. “Don’t -say any more, don’t torture me like this,” she said. “Can you not -understand how you are tearing me to pieces? If I were to do what you -say, I should be dishonest, false both to the living and the dead. And -it would be better to be at the end of the world than to be near them in -a continual fever, watching, scheming, for a word. Oh, no! no!” she -said, wringing her hands, “do not let me be tempted beyond my strength. -Edmund, for my sake, if for no other, let us go away.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with a sort of cynical observation, as she walked up -and down the room with hurried steps at first, then calming gradually. -He repeated slowly, with a half laugh, “For your sake? But I thought -everything now was to be for my sake. And it is my turn; you can’t deny -that.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion gave him a piteous look. It was true that it was his -turn; and it was true that she had said all should be for him in her -changed life. He had her at an advantage; a fact which to her finer -nature seemed the strongest reason for generous treatment, but not to -his.</p> - -<p>“It is all very well to speak,” he continued; “but if you really mean -well by me, introduce me to Rosalind. That would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> be the making of me. -She is a fine girl, and she has money; and she would be just as -pleased—”</p> - -<p>She stopped him, after various efforts, almost by force, seizing his -arm. “There are some things,” she said, “that I cannot bear. This is one -of them. I will not have her name brought in—not even her name—”</p> - -<p>“Why not? What’s in her name more than another? A rose, don’t you know, -by any other name—” he said, with a forced laugh. But he was alarmed by -Mrs. Trevanion’s look, and the clutch which in her passion she had taken -of his arm. After all, his new life was dependent upon her, and it might -be expedient not to go too far.</p> - -<p>This interlude left her trembling and full of agitation. She did not -sleep all night, but moved about the room, in her dingy London lodging, -scarcely able to keep still. A panic had seized hold upon her. She sent -for him in the morning as soon as he had left his room, which was not -early; and even he observed the havoc made in her already worn face by -the night. She told him that she had resolved to start next day. “I did -not perceive,” she said, “all the dangers of staying, till you pointed -them out to me. If I am to be honest, if I am to keep any one’s esteem, -I must go away.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see it,” he said, somewhat sullenly. “It’s all your fancy. When -a person’s in hiding, he’s safer in London than anywhere else.”</p> - -<p>“I am not in hiding,” she said, hastily, with a sense of mingled -irritation and despair. For what words could be used which he would -understand, which would convey to him any conception of what she meant? -They were like two people speaking different languages, incapable of -communicating to each other anything that did not lie upon the surface -of their lives. When he perceived at last how much in earnest she was, -how utterly resolved not to remain, he yielded, but without either grace -or good humor. He had not force enough in himself to resist when it came -to a distinct issue. Thus they departed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> together into the world -unknown—two beings absolutely bound to each other, each with no one -else in the world to turn to, and yet with no understanding of each -other, not knowing the very alphabet of each other’s thoughts.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Thus</span> Mrs. Trevanion went away out of reach and knowledge of everything -that belonged to her old life. She had not been very happy in that life. -The principal actor in it, her husband, had regarded her comfort less -than that of his horses or hounds. He had filled her existence with -agitations, but yet had not made life unbearable until the last fatal -complications had arisen. She had been surrounded by people who -understood her more or less, who esteemed and approved her, and she had -possessed in Rosalind the sweetest of companions, one who was in -sympathy with every thought, who understood almost before she was -conscious of thinking at all; a creature who was herself yet not -herself, capable of sharing everything and responding at every point. -And, except her husband, there was no one who regarded Madam Trevanion -with anything but respect and reverence. No one mistook the elevation of -her character. She was regarded with honor wherever she went, her -opinions prized, her judgment much considered. When a woman to whom this -position has been given suddenly descends to find herself in the sole -company of one who cares nothing for her judgment, to whom all her -opinions are antiquated or absurd, and herself one of those conventional -female types without logic or reason, which are all that some men know -of women, the confusing effect which is produced upon earth and heaven -is too wonderful for words. More than any change of events, this change -of position confuses and overwhelms the mind. Sometimes it is the dismal -result of an ill-considered marriage. Sometimes it appears in other -relationships. She was pulled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> rudely down from the pedestal she had -occupied so long, and rudely, suddenly, made to feel that she was no -oracle, that her words had no weight because she said them, but rather -carried with them a probability of foolishness because they were hers. -The wonder of this bewildered at first; it confused her consciousness, -and made her insecure of herself. And at last it produced the worse -effect of making everything uncertain to her. Though she had been -supposed so self-sustained and strong in character, she was too natural -a woman not to be deeply dependent upon sympathy and the support of -understanding. When these failed she tottered and found no firm footing -anywhere. Perhaps she said to herself she was really foolish, as Edmund -thought, unreasonable, slow to comprehend all character that was unlike -her own. She was no longer young; perhaps the young were wiser, had -stronger lights; perhaps her beliefs, her prejudices, were things of the -past. All this she came to think with wondering pain when the support of -general faith and sympathy was withdrawn. It made her doubtful of -everything she had done or believed, timid to speak, watching the -countenance of the young man whose attitude towards her had changed all -the world to her. This was not part of the great calamity that had -befallen her. It was something additional, another blow; to be parted -from her children, to sustain the loss of all things dear to her, was -her terrible fate, a kind of vengeance for what was past; but that her -self-respect, her confidence, should thus be taken away from her was -another distinct and severe calamity. Sometimes the result was a mental -giddiness, a quiver about her of the atmosphere and all the solid -surroundings, as though there was (but in a manner unthought of by -Berkeley) nothing really existent but only in the thoughts of those who -beheld it. Perhaps her previous experiences had led her towards this; -for such had been the scope of all her husband’s addresses to her for -many a day. But she had not been utterly alone with him, she had felt -the strong support of other people’s faith and approval holding her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> up -and giving her strength. Now all these accessories had failed her. Her -world consisted of one soul, which had no faith in her; and thus, turned -back upon herself, she faltered in all her moral certainties, and began -to doubt whether she had ever been right, whether she had any power to -judge, or perception, or even feeling, whether she were not perhaps in -reality the conventional woman, foolish, inconsistent, pertinacious, -which she appeared through Edmund’s eyes.</p> - -<p>The other strange, new sensations that Madam encountered in these years, -while her little children throve and grew under the care of Mrs. Lennox, -and Rosalind developed into the full bloom of early womanhood, were many -and various. She had thought herself very well acquainted with the -mysteries of human endurance, but it seemed to her now that at the -beginning of that new life she had known nothing of them. New depths and -heights developed every day; her own complete breaking down and the -withdrawal from her of confidence in herself being the great central -fact of all. On Edmund’s side the development too was great. He had -looked and wished for pleasure and ease and self-indulgence when he had -very little power of securing them. When by a change of fortune so -extraordinary and unexpected he actually obtained the means of -gratifying his instincts, he addressed himself to the task with a unity -of purpose which was worthy of a greater aim. He was drawn aside from -his end by no glimmer of ambition, no impulse to make something better -out of his life. His imperfect education and ignorance of what was best -in existence had perhaps something to do with this. To him, as to many a -laboring man, the power of doing no work, nor anything but what he -pleased, seemed the most supreme of gratifications. He would not give -himself the trouble to study anything, even the world, confident as only -the ignorant are in the power of money, and in that great evidence that -he had become one of the privileged classes, the fact that he did not -now need to do anything for his living. He was not absolutely bad or -cruel; he only preferred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> his own pleasure to anybody else’s, and was a -little contemptuous of a woman’s advice and intolerant of her rule and -impatient of her company. Perhaps her idea that she owed herself to him, -that it was paying an old debt of long-postponed duty to devote herself -to him now, to do her best for him, to give him everything in her power -that could make him happy, was a mistaken one from the beginning. She -got to believe that she was selfish in remaining with him, while still -feeling that her presence was the only possible curb upon him. How was -she to find a way of serving him best, of providing for all his wants -and wishes, of keeping him within the bounds of possibility, yet letting -him be free from the constraint of her presence? As time went on, this -problem became more and more urgent, yet by the same progress of time -her mind grew less and less clear on any point. The balance of the -comparative became more difficult to carry. There was no absolute good -within her reach, and she would not allow even to herself that there was -any absolute bad in the young man’s selfish life. It was all -comparative, as life was. But to find the point of comparative advantage -which should be best for him, where he should be free without being -abandoned, and have the power of shaping his course as he pleased -without the power of ruining himself and her—this became more and more -the engrossing subject of her thoughts.</p> - -<p>As for Edmund, though he indulged in many complaints and grumbles as to -having always a woman at his heels, his impatience never went the length -of emancipating himself. On the whole, his indolent nature found it most -agreeable to have everything done for him, to have no occasion for -thought. He had the power always of complaint, which gave him a kind of -supremacy without responsibility. His fixed grievance was that he was -kept out of London; his hope, varying as they went and came about the -world, that somewhere they would meet the family from which Mrs. -Trevanion had been torn, and that “on the sly,” or otherwise (though he -never repeated those unlucky<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> words), he might find himself in a -position to approach Rosalind. In the meantime he amused himself in such -ways as were practicable, and spent a great deal of money, and got a -certain amount of pleasure out of his life. His health was not robust, -and when late hours and amusements told upon him he had the most devoted -of nurses. On the whole, upon comparison with the life of a clerk on a -small salary in a Liverpool office, his present existence was a sort of -shabby Paradise.</p> - -<p>About the time when Rosalind heard from Mr. Rivers of that chance -encounter which revived all her longings for her mother, and at the same -time all the horror of vague and miserable suspicion which surrounded -Mrs. Trevanion’s name, a kind of crisis had occurred in this strange, -wandering life. Edmund had fallen ill, more seriously than before, and -in the quiet of convalescence after severe suffering had felt certain -compunctions cross his mind. He had acknowledged to his tender nurse -that she was very kind to him. “If you would not nag a fellow so,” he -said, “and drive me about so that I don’t know what I am doing, I think, -now that I am used to your ways, we might get on.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion did not defend herself against the charge of “nagging” or -“driving” as she might perhaps have done at an earlier period, but -accepted with almost grateful humility the condescension of this -acknowledgment. “In the meantime,” she said, “you must get well, and -then, please God, everything will be better.”</p> - -<p>“If you like to make it so,” he said, already half repentant of the -admission he had made. And then he added, “If you’d only give up this -fancy of yours for foreign parts. Why shouldn’t we go home? You may like -it, you speak the language, and so forth: but I detest it. If you want -to please me and make me get well, let’s go home.”</p> - -<p>“We have no home to go to, Edmund—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s nonsense, you know. You don’t suppose I mean the sort of -fireside business. Nothing is so easy as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> to get a house in London; and -you know that is what I like best.”</p> - -<p>“Edmund, how could I live in a house in London?” she said. “You must -remember that a great deal has passed that is very painful. I could not -but be brought in contact with people who used to know me—”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he cried, “here’s the real reason at last. I thought all this time -it was out of consideration for me, to keep me out of temptation, and -that sort of thing; but now it crops up at last. It’s for yourself, -after all. It is always an advance to know the true reason. And what -could they do to you, those people with whom you might be brought in -contact?”</p> - -<p>She would not perhaps have said anything about herself had he not -beguiled her by the momentary softness of his tone. And now one of those -rapid scintillations of cross light which were continually gleaming upon -her life and motives flashed over her and changed everything. To be -sure! it was selfishness, no doubt, though she had not seen it so. She -answered, faltering a little: “They could do nothing to me. Perhaps you -are right, Edmund. It may be that I have been thinking too much of -myself. But I am sure London would not be good for you. To live there -with comfort you must have something to do, or you must have—friends—”</p> - -<p>“Well!” he said, with a kind of defiance.</p> - -<p>“You have no friends, Edmund.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” he repeated, “whose fault is that? It is true that I have no -friends; but I could have friends and everything else if you would take -a little trouble—more than friends; I might marry and settle. You could -do everything for me in that way if you would take the trouble. That’s -what I want to do; but I suppose you would rather drag me forever about -with you than see me happy in a place of my own.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion had lost her beauty. She was pale and worn as if twenty -additional years had passed over her head instead of two. But for a -moment the sudden flush that warmed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> lighted up her countenance -restored to her something of her prime. “I think,” she said, “Edmund, if -you will let me for a moment believe what I am saying, that, to see you -happy and prosperous, I would gladly die. I know you will say my dying -would be little to the purpose; but the other I cannot do for you. To -marry requires a great deal that you do not think of. I don’t say love, -in the first place—”</p> - -<p>“You may if you please,” he said. “I’m awfully fond of— Oh, I don’t mind -saying her name. You know who I mean. If you were good enough for her, I -don’t see why I shouldn’t be good enough for her. You have only got to -introduce me, which you can if you like, and all the rest I take in my -own hands.”</p> - -<p>“I was saying,” she repeated, “that love, even if love exists, is not -all. Before any girl of a certain position would be allowed to marry, -the man must satisfy her friends. His past, and his future, and the -means he has, and how he intends to live—all these things have to be -taken into account. It is not so easy as you think.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well,” said Edmund; though he paused with a stare of -mounting dismay in his beautiful eyes, larger and more liquid than ever -by reason of his illness—those eyes which haunted Rosalind’s -imagination. “That is all very well: but it is not as if you were a -stranger: when they know who I am—when I have you to answer for me—”</p> - -<p>A flicker of self-assertion came into her eyes. “Why do you think they -should care for me or my recommendation? You do not,” she said.</p> - -<p>He laughed. “That’s quite different. Perhaps they know more—and I am -sure they know less—than I do. I should think you would like them to -know about me for your own sake.”</p> - -<p>She turned away with once more a rapid flush restoring momentary youth -to her countenance. She was so changed that it seemed to her, as she -caught a glimpse of herself, languidly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> moving across the room, in the -large, dim mirror opposite, that no one who belonged to her former -existence would now recognize her. And there was truth in what he said. -It would be better for her, for her own sake, that the family from whom -she was separated should know everything there was to tell. After the -first horror lest they should know, there had come a revulsion of -feeling, and she had consented in her mind that to inform them of -everything would be the best, though she still shrank from it. But even -if she had strength to make that supreme effort it could do her no good. -Nothing, they had said, no explanation, no clearing up, would ever -remove the ban under which she lay. And it would be better to go down to -her grave unjustified than to place Rosalind in danger. She looked back -upon the convalescent as he resumed fretfully the book which was for the -moment his only way of amusing himself. Illness had cleared away from -Edmund’s face all the traces of self-indulgence which she had seen -there. It was a beautiful face, full of apparent meaning and sentiment, -the eyes full of tenderness and passion—or at least what might seem so -in other lights, and to spectators less dismally enlightened than -herself. A young soul like Rosalind, full of faith and enthusiasm, might -take that face for the face of a hero, a poet. Ah! this was a cruel -thought that came to her against her will, that stabbed her like a knife -as it came. She said to herself tremulously that in other circumstances, -with other people, he might have been, might even be, all that his face -told. Only with her from the beginning everything had gone wrong—which -again, in some subtile way, according to those revenges which everything -that is evil brings with it, was her fault and not his. But Rosalind -must not be led to put her faith upon promises which were all -unfulfilled. Rosalind must not run any such risk. Whatever should -happen, she could not expose to so great a danger another woman, and -that her own child.</p> - -<p>But there were other means of setting the wheels of fate in motion, with -which Madame Trevanion had nothing to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Towards</span> the end of the summer, during the height of which Mrs. Lennox’s -party had returned to the Italian lakes, one of the friends she made at -Cadenabbia represented to that good woman that her rheumatism, from -which she had suffered during the winter, though perhaps not quite so -severely as she imagined, made it absolutely necessary to go through a -“cure” at Aix-les-Bains, where, as everybody knows, rheumatism is -miraculously operated upon by the waters. Aunt Sophy was very much -excited by this piece of advice. In the company which she had been -frequenting of late, at the <i>tables d’hôte</i> and in the public -promenades, she had begun to perceive that it was scarcely respectable -for a person of a certain age not to go through a yearly “cure” at some -one or other of a number of watering-places. It indicated a state of -undignified health and robustness which was not quite nice for a lady no -longer young. There were many who went to Germany, to the different -<i>bads</i> there, and a considerable number whose “cure” was in France, and -some even who sought unknown springs in Switzerland and Italy; but, -taken on the whole, very few indeed were the persons over fifty of -either sex who did not reckon a “cure” occupying three weeks or so of -the summer or autumn as a necessary part of the routine of life. To all -Continental people it was indispensable, and there were many Americans -who crossed the ocean for this purpose, going to Carlsbad or to -Kissingen or somewhere else with as much regularity as if they had lived -within a railway journey of the place. Only the English were careless on -so important a subject, but even among them many become convinced of the -necessity day by day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Lennox, when this idea fully penetrated her mind, and she had -blushed to think how far she was behind in so essential a particular of -life, had a strong desire to go to Homburg, where all the “best people” -went, and where there was quite a little supplementary London season, -after the conclusion of the genuine article. But, unfortunately, there -was nothing the matter with her digestion. Her rheumatism was the only -thing she could bring forward as entitling her to any position at all -among the elderly ladies and gentlemen who in August were setting out -for, or returning from, their “cures.” “Oh, then, of course, it is Aix -you must go to,” her informants said; “it is a little late, perhaps, in -September—most of the best people will have gone—still, you know, the -waters are just as good, and the great heat is over. You could not do -better than Aix.” One of the ladies who thus instructed her was even -kind enough to suggest the best hotel to go to, and to proffer her own -services, as knowing all about it, to write and secure rooms for her -friend. “It is a pity you did not go three weeks ago, when all the best -people were there; but, of course, the waters are just the same,” this -benevolent person repeated. Mrs. Lennox became, after a time, very eager -on this subject. She no longer blushed when her new acquaintances talked -of their cure. She explained to new-comers, “It is a little late, but it -did not suit my arrangements before; and, of course, the waters are the -same, though the best people are gone.” Besides, it was always, she -said, on the way home, whatever might happen.</p> - -<p>They set off accordingly, travelling in a leisurely way, in the -beginning of September. Mrs. Lennox felt that it was expedient to go -slowly, to have something of the air of an invalid before she began her -“cure.” Up to this moment she had borne a stray twinge of pain when it -came, in her shoulder or her knee, and thought it best to say nothing -about it; but now she made a little grimace when that occurred, and -said, “Oh, my shoulder!” or complained of being stiff when she got out -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> the carriage. It was only right that she should feel her ailments a -little more than usual when she began her cure.</p> - -<p>The hotels were beginning to empty when the English party, so helpless, -so used to comfort, so inviting to everybody that wanted to make money -out of them, appeared. They were received, it is needless to say, with -open arms, and had the best suites of rooms to choose from. Mrs. Lennox -felt herself to grow in importance from the moment she entered the -place. She felt more stiff than ever when she got out of the carriage -and was led up-stairs, the anxious landlady suggesting that there was a -chair in which she could be carried to her apartment if the stairs were -too much for her. “Oh, I think I can manage to walk up if I am not -hurried,” Aunt Sophy said. It would have been quite unkind, almost -improper, not to adopt the <i>rôle</i> which suited the place. She went up -quite slowly, holding by the baluster, while the children, astonished, -crowded up after her, wondering what had happened. “I think I will take -your arm, Rosalind,” murmured the simple woman. She did really feel much -stiffer than usual; and then there was that pain in her shoulder. “I am -so glad I have suffered myself to be persuaded to come. I wonder Dr. -Tennant did not order me here long ago; for I really think in my present -condition I never should have been able to get home.” Even Rosalind was -much affected by this suggestion, and blamed herself for never having -discovered how lame Aunt Sophy was growing. “But it is almost your own -fault, for you never showed it,” she said. “My dear, I did not, of -course, want to make you anxious,” replied Mrs. Lennox.</p> - -<p>The doctor came next morning, and everything was settled about the -“cure.” He told the new-comers that there were still a good many people -in Aix, and that all the circumstances were most favorable. Mrs. Lennox -was taken to her bath in a chair the day after, and went through all the -operations which the medical man thought requisite. He spoke excellent -English—which was such a comfort. He told his patient that the air of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> -the place where the cure was to be effected often seemed to produce a -temporary recrudescence of the disease. Aunt Sophy was much exhilarated -by this word. She talked of this chance of a recrudescence in a soft and -subdued tone, such as became her invalid condition, and felt a most -noble increase of dignity and importance as she proceeded with her -“cure.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was one of the party who took least to this unexpected delay. -She had begun to be very weary of the travelling, the monotony of the -groups of new acquaintances all so like each other, the atmosphere of -hotels, and all the vulgarities of a life in public. To the children it -did not matter much; they took their walks all the same whether they -were at the Elms or Aix-les-Bains, and had their nursery dinner at their -usual hour, whatever happened. The absorption of Mrs. Lennox in her -“cure” threw Rosalind now entirely upon the society of these little -persons. She went with them, or rather they went with her, in her -constant expeditions to the lake, which attracted her more than the -tiresome amusements of the watering-place, and thus all their little -adventures and encounters—incidents which in other circumstances might -have been overlooked—became matters of importance to her.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps because he was the only boy in the little feminine party, -or because he was the youngest, that Johnny was invariably the principal -personage in all these episodes of childish life. He it was whom the -ladies admired, whom strangers stopped to talk to, who was the little -hero of every small excitement. His beautiful eyes, the boyish boldness -which contrasted so strongly with little Amy’s painful shyness, and even -with his own little pale face and unassured strength, captivated the -passers-by. He was the favorite of the nursery, which was now presided -over by a nurse much more enlightened than Russell, a woman recommended -by the highest authorities, and who knew, or was supposed to know, -nothing of the family history. Rosalind had heard vaguely, without -paying much attention, of various admirers who had paid their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> tribute -to the attractions of her little brother, but it was not until her -curiosity was roused by the appearance of a present in the form of a -handsome and expensive mechanical toy, the qualities of which Johnny -expounded with much self-importance and in a loud voice, that she was -moved to any remark. The children were on the floor near her, full of -excitement. “Now it shall run round and round, and now it shall go -straight home,” Johnny said, while Amy watched and listened -ecstatically, a little maiden of few words, whose chief qualities were a -great power of admiration and a still greater of love.</p> - -<p>Rosalind was seated musing by the window, a little tired, wondering when -the “cure” would be over, and if Aunt Sophy would then recover the use -of her limbs again, and consent to go home. Mrs. Lennox was always good -and kind, and the children were very dear to their mother-sister; but -now and then, not always, perhaps not often, there comes to a young -woman like Rosalind a longing for companionship such as neither aunts or -children can give. Neither the children nor her aunt shared her -thoughts; they understood her very imperfectly on most occasions; they -had love to give her, but not a great deal more. She sighed, as people -do when there is something wanting to them, then turned upon herself -with a kind of rage and asked, “What did she want?” as girls will do on -whom it has been impressed that this wish for companionship is a thing -that is wrong, perhaps unmaidenly. But, after all, there was no harm in -it. Oh, that Uncle John were here! she said to herself. Even Roland -Hamerton would have been something. He could have tried at least his -very best to think as she did. Oh, that—! She did not put any name to -this aspiration. She was not very sure who—which—it meant, and then -she breathed a still deeper sigh, and tears came to her eyes. Oh! for -<i>her</i> of whom nobody knew where she was wandering or in what -circumstances she might be. She heard the children’s voices vaguely -through her thinking, and by and by a word caught her ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span></p> - -<p>“The lady said I was to do it like this. She did it for me on the table -out in the garden. It nearly felled down,” said Johnny, “and then it -would have broken itself, so she put it on the ground and went down on -her knees.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what did she go on her knees for, like saying her prayers, Johnny?”</p> - -<p>“Nothin’ of the sort. She just went down like this and caught hold of -me. I expose,” said Johnny, whose language was not always correct, “she -is stiff, like Aunt Sophy; for I was far more stronger and kept her up.”</p> - -<p>“Who is this that he is talking of, Amy?” Rosalind said.</p> - -<p>The little girl gave her a look which had some meaning in it, Rosalind -could not tell what, and, giving Johnny a little push with her arm after -the easy method of childhood, said, “Tell her,” turning away to examine -the toy.</p> - -<p>“It was the lady,” Johnny said, turning slightly round as on a pivot, -and lifting to her those great eyes which Aunt Sophy had said were -like—and which always went straight to Rosalind’s heart.</p> - -<p>“What lady, dear? and where did you get that beautiful toy?” Rosalind -followed the description the child had been giving, and came and knelt -on the carpet beside him. “How pretty it is! Did Aunt Sophy give you -that?”</p> - -<p>“It was the lady,” Johnny repeated.</p> - -<p>“What lady? Was it a stranger, Amy, that gave him such a beautiful toy?”</p> - -<p>“I think, Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse, coming to the rescue, “it is -some lady that has lost her little boy, and that he must have been about -Master Johnny’s age. I said it was too much, and that you would not like -him to take it; but she said the ladies would never mind if they knew it -was for the sake of another—that she had lost.”</p> - -<p>“Poor lady!” Rosalind said; the tears came to her eyes in sudden -sympathy; “that must be so sad, to lose a child.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span></p> - -<p>“It is the greatest sorrow in this world, to be only sorrow,” the woman -said.</p> - -<p>“Only sorrow! and what can be worse than that?” said innocent Rosalind. -“Is the lady very sad, Johnny? I hope you were good and thanked her for -it. Perhaps if I were with him some day she would speak to me.”</p> - -<p>“She doesn’t want nobody but me,” said Johnny. “Oh, look! doesn’t it go. -It couldn’t go on the ground because of the stones. Amy, Amy, get out of -the way, it will run you over. And now it’s going home to take William a -message. I whispered in it, so it knows what to say.”</p> - -<p>“But I want to hear about the lady, Johnny.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, look, look! it’s falled on the carpet; it don’t like the carpet any -more than the stones. I expose it’s on the floor it will go best, or on -the grass. Nurse, come along, let’s go out and try it on the grass.”</p> - -<p>“Johnny, stop! I want to know more about this lady, dear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is nothing about her,” cried the little boy, rushing after -his toy. Sophy, who had been practising, got up from the piano and came -forward to volunteer information.</p> - -<p>“She’s an old fright,” said Sophy. “I’ve seen her back—dressed all in -mourning, with a thick veil on. She never took any notice of us others -that have more sense than Johnny. I could have talked to her, but he -can’t talk to anybody, he is so little and so silly. All he can say is -only stories he makes up; you think that is clever, but I don’t think it -is clever. If I were his—aunt,” said Sophy, with a momentary -hesitation, “I would whip him. For all that is lies, don’t you know? You -would say it was lies if I said it, but you think it’s poetry because of -Johnny. Poetry is lies, Rosalind, yes, and novels too. They’re not true, -so what can they be but lies? that’s why I don’t care to read them. No, -I never read them, I like what’s true.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind caught her book instinctively, which was all she had left. “We -did not ask you for your opinion about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> poetry, Sophy; but if this lady -is so kind to Johnny I should like to go and thank her. Next time you -see her say that Johnny’s sister would like to thank her. If she has -lost her little boy we ought to be very sorry for her,” Rosalind said.</p> - -<p>Sophy looked at her with an unmoved countenance. “I think people are a -great deal better off that are not bothered with children,” she said; “I -should send the little ones home, and then we could do what we liked, -and stay as long as we liked,” quoth the little woman of the world.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnny’s</span> little social successes were so frequent that the memory of the -poor lady who had lost her child at his age soon died away, and the toy -got broken and went the way of all toys. Their life was spent in a very -simple round of occupations. Rosalind, whose powers as an artist were -not beyond the gentlest level of amateur art, took to sketching, as a -means of giving some interest to her idle hours, and it became one of -the habits of the family that Aunt Sophy, when well enough to go out for -her usual afternoon drive, should deposit her niece and the children on -the bank of the lake, the spot which Rosalind had chosen as the subject -of a sketch. The hills opposite shone in the afternoon sun with a gray -haze of heat softening all their outlines; the water glowed and sparkled -in all its various tones of blue, here and there specked by a slowly -progressing boat, carrying visitors across to the mock antiquity of -Hautecombe.</p> - -<p>After the jingle and roll of Mrs. Lennox’s carriage had passed away, the -silence of the summer heat so stilled the landscape that the distant -clank of the oars on the water produced the highest effect. It was very -warm, yet there was something in the haze that spoke of autumn, and a -cool but capricious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> little breeze came now and then from the water. -Rosalind, sitting in the shade, with her sketching-block upon her knee, -felt that soft indolence steal over her, that perfect physical content -and harmony with everything, which takes all impulse from the mind and -makes the sweetness of doing nothing a property of the very atmosphere. -Her sketch was very unsatisfactory, for one thing: the subject was much -too great for her simple powers. She knew just enough to know that it -was bad, but not how to do what she wished, to carry out her own ideal. -To make out the open secret before her, and perceive how it was that -Nature formed those shadows and poured down that light, was possible to -her mind but not to her hand, which had not the cunning necessary for -the task; but she was clever enough to see her incapacity, which is more -than can be said of most amateurs. Her hands had dropped by her side, -and her sketch upon her lap. After all, who could hope to put upon paper -those dazzling lights, and the differing tones of air and distance, the -shadows that flitted over the mountainsides, the subdued radiance of the -sky? Perhaps a great artist, Turner or his chosen rival, but not an -untrained girl, whose gifts were only for the drawing-room. Rosalind was -not moved by any passion of regret on account of her failure. She was -content to sit still and vaguely contemplate the beautiful scene, which -was half within her and half without. The “inward eye which is the bliss -of solitude” filled out the outline of the picture for her as she sat, -not thinking, a part of the silent rapture of the scene. The children -were playing near her, and their voices, softened in the warm air, made -part of the beatitude of the moment—that, and the plash of the water on -the shore, and the distant sound of the oars, and the breeze that blew -in her face. It was one of those exquisite instants, without any actual -cause of happiness in them, when we are happy without knowing why. Such -periods come back to the mind as the great events which are called -joyful never do—for with events, however joyful, there come -agitations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> excitements—whereas pure happiness is serene, and all the -sweeter for being without any cause.</p> - -<p>Thus Rosalind sat—notwithstanding many things in her life which were -far from perfect—in perfect calm and pleasure. The nurse, seated lower -down upon the beach, was busy with a piece of work, crochet or some -other of those useless handiworks which are a refreshment to those who -are compelled to be useful for the greater portion of their lives. The -children were still nearer to the edge of the water, playing with a -little pleasure-boat which was moored within the soft plash of the lake. -It was not a substantial craft, like the boats native to the place, -which are meant to convey passengers and do serious work, but was a -little, gayly painted, pleasure skiff, belonging to an Englishman in the -neighborhood, neither safe nor solid—one of the cockleshells that a -wrong balance upsets in a moment. It was to all appearance safely -attached to something on the land, and suggested no idea of danger -either to the elder sister seated above or to the nurse on the beach.</p> - -<p>Amy and Johnny had exhausted their imagination in a hundred dramatic -plays; they had “pretended” to be kings and queens; to be a lady -receiving visitors and a gentleman making a morning call; to be a -clergyman preaching to a highly critical and unsatisfactory audience, -which would neither stay quiet nor keep still; to be a procession -chanting funeral hymns; even coming down sadly from that level of high -art to keep a shop, selling pebbles and sand for tea and sugar. Such -delights, however, are but transitory; the children, after a while, -exhausted every device they could think of; and then they got into the -boat, which it was very easy to do. The next thing, as was natural, was -to “pretend” to push off and row. And, alas! the very first of these -attempts was too successful. The boat had been attached, as it appeared, -merely to a small iron rod thrust into the sand, and Johnny, being -vigorous and pulling with all his little might—with so much might that -he tumbled into the bottom of the boat head over heels in the revulsion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> -of the effort—the hold gave way. Both nurse and sister sat tranquilly, -fearing no evil, while this tremendous event took place, and it was not -till the shifting of some bright lines in the foreground caught -Rosalind’s dreaming eye that the possibility of any accident occurred to -her. She sprang to her feet then, with a loud cry which startled the -nurse and a group of children playing farther on, on the beach, but no -one who could be of any real assistance. The little bright vessel was -afloat and already bearing away upon the shining water. In a minute it -was out of reach of anything the women could do. There was not a boat or -a man within sight; the only hope was in the breeze which directed the -frail little skiff to a small projecting point farther on, to which, as -soon as her senses came back to her, Rosalind rushed, with what -intention she scarcely knew, to plunge into the water though she could -not swim, to do something, if it should only be to drown along with -them. The danger that the boat might float out into the lake was not -all; for any frightened movement, even an attempt to help themselves on -the part of the children, might upset the frail craft in a moment, and -end their voyage forever.</p> - -<p>She flew over the broken ground, stumbling in her hurry and agitation, -doing her best to stifle the cries that burst from her, lest she should -frighten the little voyagers. For the moment they were quite still, -surprise and alarm and a temporary confusion as to what to do having -quieted their usual restlessness. Amy’s little face, with a smile on it, -gradually growing fixed as fear crept over her which she would not -betray, and Johnny’s back as he settled himself on the rowing seat, with -his arms just beginning to move towards the oars which Rosalind felt -would be instant destruction did he get hold of them, stood out in her -eyes as if against a background of flame. It was only the background of -the water, all soft and glowing, with scarcely a ripple upon it, safe, -so peaceful, and yet death. There could not have been a prettier -picture. The boat was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> reflected in every tint, the children’s dresses, -its own lines of white and crimson, the foolish little flag of the same -colors that fluttered at the bow—all prettiness, gayety, a picture that -would have delighted a child, softly floating, double, boat and shadow. -But never was any scene of prettiness looked at with such despair. “Keep -still, keep still,” Rosalind cried, half afraid even to say so much, as -she flew along, her brain all one throb. If but the gentle breeze, the -current so slight as to be scarcely visible, would drift them to the -point! if only her feet would carry her there in time! Her sight seemed -to fail her, and yet for years after it was like a picture ineffaceably -printed upon her eyes.</p> - -<p>She was rushing into the water in despair, with her hands stretched out, -but, alas! seeing too clearly that the boat was still out of her reach, -and restraining with pain the cry of anguish which would have startled -the children, when she felt herself suddenly put aside and a coat, -thrown off by some one in rapid motion, fell at her feet. Rosalind did -not lose her senses, which were all strung to the last degree of vivid -force and capability; but she knew nothing, did not think, was conscious -neither of her own existence nor of how this came about, of nothing but -the sight before her eyes. She stood among the reeds, her feet in the -water, trying to smile to the children, to Amy, upon whom terror was -growing, and to keep her own cries from utterance. The plunge of the -new-comer in the water startled Johnny. He had got hold of the oar, and -in the act of flinging it upon the water with the clap which used to -delight him on the lake at home, turned sharply round to see what this -new sound meant. Then the light vanished from Rosalind’s eyes. She -uttered one cry, which seemed to ring from one end of the lake to the -other, and startled the rowers far away on the other side. Then -gradually sight came back to her. Had it all turned into death and -destruction, that shining water, with its soft reflections, the pretty -outline, the floating colors? She heard a sound of voices, the tones of -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> children, and then the scene became visible again, as if a black -shadow had been removed. There was the boat, still floating double, -Amy’s face full of smiles, Johnny’s voice raised high—“Oh, <i>I</i> could -have doned it!”—a man’s head above the level of the water, a hand upon -the side of the boat. Then some one called to her, “No harm done; I will -take them back to the beach.” The throbbing went out of Rosalind’s brain -and went lower down, till her limbs shook under her, and how to get -through the reeds she could not tell. She lifted the coat instinctively -and struggled along, taking, it seemed to her, half an hour to retrace -the steps which she had made in two minutes in the access of terror -which had left her so weak. The nurse, who had fallen helpless on the -beach, covering her eyes with her hands not to see the catastrophe, had -recovered and got the children in her arms before Rosalind reached them. -They were quite at their ease, and skipped about on the shingle, when -lifted from the boat, with an air of triumph. “I could have doned it if -you had left me alone,” said Johnny, careless of the mingled caresses -and reproaches that fell upon him in a torrent—the “Oh, children, -you’ve almost killed me!” of nurse, and the passionate clasp with which -Rosalind seized upon them. “We were floating beautiful,” said little -Amy, oblivious of her terrors; and they began to descant both together -upon the delights of their “sail.” “Oh, it is far nicer than those big -boats!” “And if he had let me get the oars out I’d have doned it -myself,” cried Johnny. The group of children which had been disturbed by -the accident stood round, gaping open-mouthed in admiration, and the -loud sound of hurrying oars from a boat rushing across the lake to the -rescue added to the excitement of the little hero and heroine. -Rosalind’s dress was torn with her rush through the reeds, her shoes -wet, her whole frame trembling; while nurse had got her tidy bonnet awry -and her hair out of order. But the small adventurers had suffered no -harm or strain of any kind. They were jaunty in their perfect success -and triumph.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span></p> - -<p>“I thought it safest to bring them round to this bit of beach, where -they could be landed without any difficulty. Oh, pray don’t say anything -about it. It was little more than wading, the water is not deep. And I -am amply—Miss Trevanion? I am shocked to see you carrying my coat!”</p> - -<p>Rosalind turned to the dripping figure by her side with a cry of -astonishment. She had been far too much agitated even to make any -question in her mind who it was. Now she raised her eyes to meet—what? -the eyes that were like Johnny’s, the dark, wistful, appealing look -which had come back to her mind so often. He stood there with the water -running from him, in the glow of exertion, his face thinner and less -boyish, but his look the same as when he had come to her help on the -country road, and by the little lake at Highcourt. It flashed through -Rosalind’s mind that he had always come to her help. She uttered the -“Oh!” which is English for every sudden wonder, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>“I hope,” he said, “that you may perhaps remember I once saw you at -Highcourt in the old days, in a little difficulty with a boat. This was -scarcely more than that.”</p> - -<p>“I recollect,” she said, her breath coming fast; “you were very -kind—and now— Oh, this is a great deal more; I owe you—their lives.”</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t say so. It was nothing—any one would have done it, even if -there had been a great deal more to do, but there was nothing; it was -little more than wading.” Then he took his coat from her hand, which she -had been holding all the time. “It is far more—it is too much that you -should have carried my coat, Miss Trevanion. It is more than a reward.”</p> - -<p>She had thought of the face so often, the eyes fixed upon her, and had -forgotten what doubts had visited her mind when she saw him before. Now, -when she met the gaze of those eyes again, all her doubts came back. -There was a faint internal struggle, even while she remembered that he -had saved the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> lives of the children. “I know,” she said, recollecting -herself, “that we have met before, and that I had other things to thank -you for, though nothing like this. But you must forgive me, for I don’t -know your name.”</p> - -<p>“My name is Everard,” he said, with a little hesitation and a quick -flush of color. His face, which had always been refined in feature, had -a delicacy that looked like ill-health, and as he pulled on his coat -over his wet clothes he shivered slightly. Was it because he felt the -chill, or only to call forth the sudden anxiety which appeared in -Rosalind’s face? “Oh,” he said, “it was momentary. I shall take no -harm.”</p> - -<p>“What can we do?” cried Rosalind, with alarm. “If it should make you -ill! And you are here perhaps for the baths? and yet have plunged in -without thought. What can we do? There is no carriage nor anything to be -got. Oh, Mr. Everard! take pity upon me and hasten home.”</p> - -<p>“I will walk with you if you will let me.”</p> - -<p>“But we cannot go quick, the children are not able; and what if you -catch cold! My aunt would never forgive me if I let you wait.”</p> - -<p>“There could be nothing improper,” he said hastily, “with the nurse and -the children.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind felt the pain of this mistaken speech prick her like a -pin-point. To think in your innermost consciousness that a man is “not a -gentleman” is worse than anything else that can be said of him in -English speech. She hesitated and was angry with herself, but yet her -color rose high. “What I mean,” she said, with an indescribable, -delicate pride, “is that you will take cold—you understand me, -surely—you will take cold after being in the water. I beg you to go on -without waiting, for the children cannot walk quickly.”</p> - -<p>“And you?” he said; still he did not seem to understand, but looked at -her with a sort of delighted persuasion that she was avoiding the walk -with him coyly, with that feminine withdrawal which leads a suitor on. -“You are just as wet as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> am. Could not we two push on and leave the -children to follow?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind gave him a look which was full of almost despairing wonder. The -mind and the words conveyed so different an impression from that made by -the refined features and harmonious face. “Oh, please go away,” she -said, “I am in misery to see you standing there so wet. My aunt will -send to you to thank you. Oh, please go away! If you catch cold we will -never forgive ourselves,” Rosalind cried, with an earnestness that -brought tears to her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Miss Trevanion, that you should care—”</p> - -<p>Rosalind, in her heat and eagerness, made an imperious gesture, stamping -her foot on the sand in passionate impatience. “Go, go!” she cried. “We -owe you the children’s lives, and we shall not forget it—but go!”</p> - -<p>He hesitated. He did not believe nor understand her! He looked in her -eyes wistfully, yet with a sort of smile, to know how much of it was -true. Could any one who was a gentleman have so failed to apprehend her -meaning? Yet it did gleam on him at length, and he obeyed her, though -reluctantly, turning back half a dozen times in the first hundred yards -to see if she were coming. At last a turn in the road hid him from her -troubled eyes.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> the party arrived at the hotel and Aunt Sophy was informed of what -had happened, her excitement was great. The children were caressed and -scolded in a breath. After a while, however, the enormity of their -behavior was dwelt upon by all their guardians together.</p> - -<p>“I was saying, ma’am, that I couldn’t never take Miss Amy and Master -Johnny near to that lake again. Oh, I couldn’t! The hotel garden, I -couldn’t go farther, not with any peace of mind.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span></p> - -<p>“You hear what nurse says, children,” said Aunt Sophy; “she is quite -right. It would be impossible for me to allow you to go out again unless -you made me a promise, oh, a faithful promise.”</p> - -<p>Amy was tired with the long walk after all the excitement; and she was -always an impressionable little thing. She began to cry and protest that -she never meant any harm, that the boat was so pretty, and that she was -sure it was fastened and could not get away. But Johnny held his ground. -“I could have doned it myself,” he said; “I know how to row. Nobody -wasn’t wanted—if that fellow had let us alone.”</p> - -<p>“Where is the gentleman, Rosalind?” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Oh, how could -you be so ungrateful as to let him go without asking where he was to be -found? To think he should have saved those precious children and not to -know where to find him to thank him! Oh, children, only think, if you -had been brought home all cold and stiff, and laid out there never to -give any more trouble, never to go home again, never to speak to your -poor, distracted auntie, or to poor Rosalind, or to— Oh, my darlings! -What should I have done if you had been brought home to me like that? It -would have killed me. I should never more have held up my head again.”</p> - -<p>At this terrible prospect, and at the sight of Aunt Sophy’s tears, Amy -flung her arms as far as they would go round that portly figure, and hid -her sobs upon her aunt’s bosom. Johnny began to yield; he grew pale, and -his big eyes veiled themselves with a film of tears. To think of lying -there cold and stiff, as Aunt Sophy said, daunted the little hero. “I -could have doned it,” he said, but faltered, and his mouth began to -quiver.</p> - -<p>“And Uncle John,” cried Mrs. Lennox, “and Rex! what would you have said -never, never to see them again?”</p> - -<p>Johnny, in his own mind, piled up the agony still higher—and the -rabbits, and the pigeons, and his own pet guinea-pig, and his pony! He -flung himself into Aunt Sophy’s lap, which was so large, and so soft, -and so secure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span></p> - -<p>This scene moved Rosalind both to tears and laughter; for it was a -little pathetic as well as funny, and the girl was overstrained. She -would have liked to fling herself, too, into arms of love like Aunt -Sophy’s, which were full—arms as loving, but more strong. The children -did not want their mother, but Rosalind did. Her mind was moved by -sentiments more complex than Johnny’s emotions, but she had no one to -have recourse to. The afternoon brightness had faded, and the gray of -twilight filled the large room, making everything indistinct. At this -crisis the door opened and somebody was ushered into the room, some one -who came forward with a hesitating, yet eager, step. “I hope I may be -permitted, though I am without introduction, to ask if the children have -taken any harm,” he said.</p> - -<p>“It is Mr. Everard, Aunt Sophy.” Rosalind retired to the background, her -heart beating loudly. She wanted to look on, to see what appearance he -presented to a spectator, to know how he would speak, what he would say.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Mrs. Lennox, standing up with a child in each arm, “it is -the gentleman who saved my darlings—it is your deliverer, children. Oh, -sir, what can I say to you; how can I even thank you? You have saved my -life too, for I should never have survived if anything had happened to -them.”</p> - -<p>He stood against the light of one of the windows, unconscious of the -eager criticism with which he was being watched. Perhaps the bow he made -was a little elaborate, but his voice was soft and refined. “I am very -glad if I have been of any service,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, service! it is far, far beyond that. I hope Rosalind said something -to you; I hope she told you how precious they were, and that we could -never, never forget.”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to thank me for, indeed. It was more a joke than -anything else; the little things were in no danger so long as they sat -still. I was scarcely out of my depth, not much more than wading all the -time.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span></p> - -<p>“Aunt Sophy, that is what I told you,” said Johnny, withdrawing his head -from under her arm. “I could have doned it myself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, Johnny! Whatever way it was done, what does that matter? Here -they are, and they might have been at the bottom of the lake. And you -risked your own life or your health, which comes to the same thing! Pray -sit down, Mr. Everard. If you are here,” Aunt Sophy went on, loosing her -arms from the children and sitting down with the full purpose of -enjoying a talk, “as I am, for the waters, to get drenched and to walk -home in your wet clothes must have been madness—that is, if you are -here for your health.”</p> - -<p>“I am here for the baths, but a trifle like that could harm no one.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I trust not—oh, I anxiously trust not! It makes my heart stand -still even to think of it. Are you getting any benefit? It is for -rheumatism, I suppose? And what form does yours take? One sufferer is -interested in another,” Mrs. Lennox said.</p> - -<p>He seemed to wince a little, and threw a glance behind into the dimness -to look for Rosalind. To confess to rheumatism is not interesting. He -said at last, with a faint laugh, “I had rheumatic fever some years ago. -My heart is supposed to be affected, that is all; the water couldn’t -hurt that organ; indeed I think it did good.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind, in the background, knew that this was meant for her; but her -criticism was disarmed by a touch of humorous sympathy for the poor -young fellow, who had expected, no doubt, to appear in the character of -a hero, and was thus received as a fellow-sufferer in rheumatism. But -Mrs. Lennox naturally saw nothing ludicrous in the situation. “Mine,” -she said, “is in the joints. I get so stiff, and really to rise up after -I have been sitting down for any time is quite an operation. I suppose -you don’t feel anything of that sort? To be sure, you are so much -younger—but sufferers have a fellow-feeling. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> when did you begin -your baths? and how many do you mean to take? and do you think they are -doing you any good? It is more than I can say just at present, but they -tell me that it often happens so, and that it is afterwards that one -feels the good result.”</p> - -<p>“I know scarcely any one here,” said the young man, “so I have not been -able to compare notes; but I am not ill, only taking the baths to please -a—relation, who, perhaps,” he said with a little laugh, “takes more -interest in me than I deserve.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am sure not that!” said Aunt Sophy, with enthusiasm. “But, -indeed, it is very nice of you to pay so much attention to your -relation’s wishes. You will never repent putting yourself to trouble for -her peace of mind, and I am sure I sympathize with her very much in the -anxiety she must be feeling. When the heart is affected it is always -serious. I hope, Mr. ——”</p> - -<p>“Everard,” he said with a bow, once more just a little, as the critic -behind him felt, too elaborate for the occasion.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. Rosalind did tell me; but I was so much agitated, -almost too much to pay any attention. I hope, Mr. Everard, that you are -careful to keep yourself from all agitation. I can’t think the shock of -plunging into the lake could be good for you. Oh, I feel quite sure it -couldn’t be good. I hope you will feel no ill results afterwards. But -excitement of any sort, or agitation, that is the worst thing for the -heart. I hope, for your poor dear relation’s sake, who must be so -anxious, poor lady, that you will take every care.”</p> - -<p>He gave a glance behind Mrs. Lennox to the shadow which stood between -him and the window. “That depends,” he said, “rather on other people -than on myself. You may be sure I should prefer to be happy and at ease -if it were in my power.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, well!” said Aunt Sophy, “that is very true. Of course our happiness -depends very much upon other people. And you have done a great deal for -mine, Mr. Everard. It would not have done me much good to have people -telling me to be cheerful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> if my poor little darlings had been at the -bottom of the lake.” Here Aunt Sophy stopped and cried a little, then -went on. “You are not, I think, living at our hotel, but I hope you will -stay and dine with us. Oh, yes, I cannot take any refusal. We may have -made your acquaintance informally, but few people can have so good a -reason for wishing to know you. This is my niece, Miss Trevanion, Mr. -Everard; the little children you saved are my brother’s children—the -late Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind listened with her heart beating high. Was it possible that he -would receive the introduction as if he had known nothing of her before? -He rose and turned towards her, made once more that slightly stiff, too -elaborate bow, and was silent. No, worse than that, began to say -something about being happy to make—acquaintance.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Sophy,” said Rosalind, stepping forward, “you are under a mistake. -Mr. Everard knows us well enough. I met him before we left Highcourt.” -And then she, too, paused, feeling with sudden embarrassment that there -was a certain difficulty in explaining their meetings, a difficulty of -which she had not thought. It was he now who had the advantage which she -had felt to lie with herself.</p> - -<p>“It is curious how things repeat themselves,” he said. “I had once the -pleasure of recovering a boat that had floated away from Miss Trevanion -on the pond at Highcourt, but I could not have ventured to claim -acquaintance on so small an argument as that.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was silenced—her mind began to grow confused. It was not true -that this was all, and yet it was not false. She said nothing; if it -were wrong, she made herself an accomplice in the wrong; and Aunt -Sophy’s exclamations soon put an end to the incident.</p> - -<p>“So you had met before!” she cried. “So you know Highcourt! Oh, what a -very small world this is!—everybody says so, but it is only now and -then that one is sensible. But you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> must tell us all about it at dinner. -We dine at the <i>table d’hôte</i>, if you don’t mind. It is more amusing, -and I don’t like to shut up Rosalind with only an old lady like me for -her company. You like it too? Oh, well, that is quite nice. Will you -excuse us now, Mr. Everard, while we prepare for dinner? for that is the -dressing-bell just ringing, and they allow one so little time. Give me -your hand, dear, to help me up. You see I am quite crippled,” Mrs. -Lennox said, complacently, forgetting how nimbly she had sprung from her -chair with a child under each arm to greet their deliverer. She limped a -little as she went out of the room on Rosalind’s arm. She was quite sure -that her rheumatism made her limp; but sometimes she forgot that she had -rheumatism, which is a thing that will happen in such cases now and -then.</p> - -<p>The room was still dark. It was not Mrs. Lennox’s custom to have it -lighted before dinner, and when the door closed upon the ladies the -young man was left alone. His thoughts were full of triumph and -satisfaction, not unmingled with praise. He had attained by the chance -of a moment what he had set his heart upon, he said to himself; for -years he had haunted Highcourt for this end; he had been kept cruelly -and unnaturally (he thought) from realizing it. Those who might have -helped him, without any harm to themselves, had refused and resisted his -desire, and compelled him to relinquish it. And now in a moment he had -attained what he had so desired. Introduced under the most flattering -circumstances, with every prepossession in his favor, having had it in -his power to lay under the deepest obligation the family, the guardians -as well as the girl who, he said to himself, was the only girl he had -ever loved. Did he love Rosalind? He thought so, as Mrs. Lennox thought -she had rheumatism. Both were serious enough—and perhaps this young -stranger was not clearly aware how much it was he saw in Rosalind -besides herself. He saw in her a great deal that did not meet the -outward eye, though he also saw the share of beauty she possessed, -magnified by his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> small acquaintance with women of her kind. He saw her -sweet and fair and desirable in every way, as the truest lover might -have done. And there were other advantages which such a lover as Roland -Hamerton would have scorned to take into consideration, which -Rivers—not able at his more serious age to put them entirely out of his -mind—yet turned from instinctively as if it were doing her a wrong to -remember them, but which this young man realized vividly and reminded -himself of with rising exhilaration. With such a wife what might he not -do? Blot out everything that was against him, attain everything he had -ever dreamed of, secure happiness, advancement, wealth. He moved from -window to window of the dim room, waiting for the ladies, in a state of -exaltation indescribable. He had been raised at once from earth to -heaven. There was not a circumstance that was not in his favor. He was -received by them as an intimate, he was to be their escort, to be -introduced by them, to form one of their party; and Rosalind! Rosalind! -she was the only girl whom he had ever loved.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">He</span> was placed between the ladies at the <i>table d’hôte</i>. Mrs. Lennox, on -her side, told the story of what had happened to the lady on her other -side, and Rosalind was appealed to by her left-hand neighbor to know -what was the truth of the rumor which had begun to float about the -little community. It was reported all down the table, so far, at least, -as the English group extended, “That is the gentleman next to Mrs. -Lennox—the children were drowning, and he plunged in and saved both.” -“What carelessness to let them go so near the water! It is easy to see, -poor things, that they have no mother.” “And did he save them both? Of -course, they must both be safe or Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion would -not have appeared at the <i>table d’hôte</i>.” Such remarks as these, -interspersed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> with questions, “Who is the young fellow?—where has he -sprung from? I never saw him before,” buzzed all about as dinner went -on. Mr. Everard was presented by Mrs. Lennox, in her gratitude, to the -lady next to her, who was rather a great lady, and put up her glass to -look at him. He was introduced to the gentleman on Rosalind’s other hand -by that gentleman’s request. Thus he made his appearance in society at -Aix with greatest <i>éclat</i>. When they rose from the table he followed -Rosalind out of doors into the soft autumnal night. The little veranda -and the garden walks under the trees were full of people, under cover of -whose noisy conversation there was abundant opportunity for a more -interesting <i>tête-à-tête</i>. “You are too kind,” he said, “in telling this -little story. Indeed, there was nothing to make any commotion about. You -could almost have done it, without any help from me.”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said. “I could not have done it; I should have tried and -perhaps been drowned, too. But it is not I who have talked, it is Aunt -Sophy. She is very grateful to you.”</p> - -<p>“She has no occasion,” he said. “Whatever I could do for you, Miss -Trevanion—” and then he stopped, somewhat breathlessly. “It was -curious, was it not? that the boat on the pond should have been so much -the same thing, though everything else was so different. And that is -years ago.”</p> - -<p>“Nearly two years.”</p> - -<p>“Then you remember?” he said, in a tone of delighted surprise.</p> - -<p>“I have much occasion to remember. It was at a very sad moment. I -remember everything that happened.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said the young man. “No, I did not forget. It was only -that in the pleasure of seeing you everything else went out of my mind. -But I have never forgotten, Miss Trevanion, all your anxiety. I saw you, -you may remember, the day you were leaving home.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind raised her eyes to him with a look of pain. “It is not a happy -recollection,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Rosalind. I hope you will forgive me for recalling to you what -is so painful.”</p> - -<p>“The sight of you recalls it,” she said; “it is not your fault, Mr. -Everard, you had relations near Highcourt.”</p> - -<p>“Only one, but nobody now—nobody. It was a sort of chance that took me -there at all. I was in a little trouble, and then I left suddenly, as it -happened, the same day as you did, Miss Trevanion. How well I remember -it all! You were carrying the same little boy who was in the boat -to-day—was it the same?—and you would not let me help you. I almost -think if you had seen it was me you would not have allowed me to help -you to-day.”</p> - -<p>“If I had seen it was—” Rosalind paused with troubled surprise. -Sometimes his fine voice and soft tones lulled her doubts altogether, -but, again, a sudden touch brought them all back. He was very quick, -however, to observe the changes in her, and changed with them with a -curious mixture of sympathy and servility.</p> - -<p>“Circumstances have carried me far away since then,” he said; “but I -have always longed to know, to hear, something. If I could tell you the -questions I have asked myself as to what might be going on; and how many -times I have tried to get to England to find out!”</p> - -<p>“We have never returned to Highcourt,” she said, confused by his efforts -to bring back those former meetings, and not knowing how to reply. “I -think we shall not till my brother comes of age. Yes, my little brother -was the same. He is very much excited about what happened to-day; -neither of them understood it at first, but now they begin to perceive -that it is a wonderful adventure. I hope the wetting will do you no -harm.”</p> - -<p>“Please,” he said in a petulant tone, “if you do not want to vex me, say -no more of that. I am not such a weak creature; indeed, there is nothing -the matter with me, except in imagination.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span></p> - -<p>“I think,” said Rosalind, with a little involuntary laugh, “that the -baths of Aix are good for the imagination. It grows by what it feeds on; -though rheumatism does not seem to be an imaginative sort of malady.”</p> - -<p>“You forget,” he cried, almost with resentment; “the danger of it is -that it affects the heart, which is not a thing to laugh at.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, forgive me!” Rosalind cried. “I should not have spoken so lightly. -It was because you were so determined that nothing ailed you. And I hope -you are right. The lake was so beautiful to-day. It did not look as if -it could do harm.”</p> - -<p>“You go there often? I saw you had been painting.”</p> - -<p>“Making a very little, very bad, sketch, that was all. Mr. Everard, I -think I must go in. My aunt will want me.”</p> - -<p>“May I come, too? How kind she is! I feared that being without -introduction, knowing nobody— But Mrs. Lennox has been most generous, -receiving me without a question—and you, Miss Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>“Did you expect me to stop you from saving the children till I had asked -who you were?” cried Rosalind, endeavoring to elude the seriousness with -which he always returned to the original subject. “It is a pretty manner -of introduction to do us the greatest service, the greatest kindness.”</p> - -<p>“But it was nothing. I can assure you it was nothing,” he said. He liked -to be able to make this protestation. It was a sort of renewing of his -claim upon them. To have a right, the very strongest right, to their -gratitude, and yet to declare it was nothing—that was very pleasant to -the young man. And in a way it was true. He would have done anything -that it did not hurt him very much to do for Rosalind, even for her aunt -and her little brothers and sisters, but to feel that he was entitled to -their thanks and yet waived them was delightful to him. It was a -statement over and over again of his right to be with them. He -accompanied Rosalind to the room in which Aunt Sophy had established -herself, with mingled confidence and timidity, ingratiating himself by -every means that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> possible, though he did not talk very much. -Indeed, he was not great in conversation at any time, and now he was so -anxious to please that he was nervous and doubtful what to say.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lennox received the young people with real pleasure. She liked, as -has been said in a previous part of this history, to have a young man -about, in general attendance, ready to go upon her errands and make -himself agreeable. It added to the ease and the gayety of life to have a -lover upon hand, one who was not too far gone, who still had eyes for -the other members of the party, and a serious intention of making -himself generally pleasant. She had never concealed her opinion that an -attendant of this description was an advantage. And Mrs. Lennox was -imprudent to the bottom of her heart. She had plenty of wise maxims in -store as to the necessity of keeping ineligible persons at a distance, -but it did not occur to her to imagine that a well-looking young -stranger attaching himself to her own party might be ineligible. Of -Arthur Rivers she had known that his family lived in an obscure street -in Clifton, which furnished her with objections at once. But of Mr. -Everard, who had saved the children’s lives, she had no doubts. She did, -indeed, mean to ask him if he belonged to the Everards of Essex, but in -the meantime was quite willing to take that for granted.</p> - -<p>“It is so curious,” she said, making room for him to bring a chair -beside her, “that you and Rosalind should have met before, and how -fortunate for us! Oh, yes, Highcourt is a fine place. Of course we think -so, Rosalind and I, having both been born there. We think there is no -place in the world like it; but I have a right to feel myself impartial, -for I have been a good deal about; and there is no doubt it is a fine -place. Did you see over the house, Mr. Everard? Oh, no, of course it was -when my poor brother was ill. There were so many trying circumstances,” -she added, lowering her voice, “that we thought it best just to leave -it, you know, and the Elms does very well for the children as long as -they are children. Of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> course, when Reginald comes of age— Do you know -the neighborhood of Clifton, Mr. Everard? Oh, you must come and see me -there. It is a capital hunting country, you know, and that is always an -inducement to a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“I should have no need of any inducement, if you are so kind.”</p> - -<p>“It is you that have been kind,” Mrs, Lennox said. “I am sure if we can -do anything to make our house agreeable to you— Now tell me how you get -on here. How often do you take the baths? Oh, I hope you are regular—so -much depends upon regularity, they tell me. Lady Blashfield, whom I was -talking to at dinner, tells me that if you miss one it is as bad as -giving up altogether. It is the continuity, she says. Young men are very -difficult to guide in respect to their health. My dear husband, that is, -Mr. Pulteney, my <i>first</i> dear husband, whom I lost when we were both -quite young, might have been here now, poor dear fellow, if he had only -consented to be an invalid, and to use the remedies. You must let one -who has suffered so much say a word of warning to you, Mr. Everard. Use -the remedies, and youth will do almost everything for you. He might have -been here now—” Mrs. Lennox paused and applied her handkerchief to her -eyes.</p> - -<p>Young Everard listened with the most devout attention, while Rosalind, -on her side, could not refrain from an involuntary reflection as to the -extreme inconvenience of Mr. Pulteney’s presence now. If that had been -all along possible, was not Aunt Sophy guilty of a kind of constructive -bigamy? To hear her dwelling upon this subject, and the stranger -listening with so much attention, gave Rosalind an insane desire to -laugh. Even Roland Hamerton, she thought, would have seen the humor of -the suggestion; but Everard was quite serious, lending an attentive ear. -He was very anxious to please. There was an absence of ease about him in -his anxiety. Not the ghost of a smile stole to his lips. He sat there -until Mrs. Lennox got tired, and remembered that the early hour at which -she began<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> to bathe every morning made it expedient now to go to bed. He -was on the alert in a moment, offering his arm, and truly sympathetic -about the difficulty she expressed in rising from her chair. “I can get -on when once I am fairly started,” she said; “thank you so much, Mr. -Everard. Rosalind is very kind, but naturally in a gentleman’s arm there -is more support.”</p> - -<p>“I am so glad that I can be of use,” he said fervently. And Rosalind -followed up-stairs, carrying Aunt Sophy’s work, half pleased, half -amused, a little disconcerted by the sudden friendship which had arisen -between them. She was, herself, in a very uncertain, somewhat excited -state of mind. The re-appearance of the stranger who had achieved for -himself, she could not tell how, a place in her dreams, disturbed the -calm in which she had been living, which in itself was a calm unnatural -at her age. Her heart beat with curious content, expectation, doubt, and -anxiety. He was not like the other men whom she had known. There was -something uncertain about him, a curiosity as to what he would do or -say, a suppressed alarm in her mind as to whether his doings and sayings -would be satisfactory. He might make some terrible mistake. He might say -something that would set in a moment a great gulf between him and her. -It was uncomfortable, and yet perhaps it had a certain fascination in -it. She never knew what was the next thing he might say or do. But Aunt -Sophy was loud in his praises when they reached their own apartment. -“What a thoroughly nice person!” she said. “What a modest, charming -young man! not like so many, laughing in their sleeve, in a hurry to get -away, taking no trouble about elder people. Mr. Everard has been -thoroughly well brought up, Rosalind; he must have had a nice mother. -That is always what I think when I see a young man with such good -manners. His mother must have been a nice woman. I am sure if he had -been my own nephew he could not have been more attentive to me.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind said little in reply to this praise. She was pleased,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> and yet -an intrusive doubt would come in. To be a little original, not like all -the others, is not that an advantage? and yet— She went to her own room, -thoughtful, yet with a sensation of novelty not without pleasure in her -mind, and paused, in passing, at the children’s door to pay them her -usual visit, and give them the kiss when they were asleep which their -mother was not near to give. This visit had a twofold meaning to -Rosalind. It was a visit of love to the little ones, that they might not -be deprived of any tenderness that she could give; and it was a sort of -pilgrimage of faithful devotion to the shrine which the mother had left -empty. A pang of longing for that mother, and of the wondering pain -which her name always called forth, was in her heart when she stooped -over the little beds. Ordinarily, everything was dim—the faint -night-light affording guidance to where they lay, and no more—and -still, with nothing but the soft breathing of the two children, one in -the outer and the other in the inner room. But to-night there was a -candle burning within and the sound of nurse’s voice soothing Johnny, -who, sitting up in his bed, was looking round him with eyes full of -light, and that large childish wakefulness which seems a sort of protest -against ever sleeping again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Rosalind, I don’t know what to do with Master Johnny; he says -a lady came and looked at him. You’ve not been here, have you, miss? I -tell him there is no lady. He must just have dreamed it.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t dreamed it,” said Johnny. “It was a beautiful lady. She came -in <i>there</i>, and stood <i>here</i>. I want her to come again,” the child said, -gazing about him with his great eyes.</p> - -<p>“But it is impossible, Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse; “the door is -locked, and there is no lady. He just must have been dreaming. He is a -little upset with the accident.”</p> - -<p>“We wasn’t a bit upsetted,” said Johnny. “I could have doned it myself. -I wanted to tell the lady, Rosy, but she only said, ‘Go to sleep.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span><span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“That was the very wisest thing she could say. Go to sleep, and I will -sit by you,” said Rosalind.</p> - -<p>It was some time, however, before Johnny accomplished the feat of going -to sleep. He was very talkative and anxious to fight his battles over -again, and explain exactly how he would have “doned” it. When the little -eyes closed at last, and all was still, Rosalind found the nurse waiting -in the outer room in some anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Rosalind, I am sure he was off his head a little—not to call -wandering, but just a little off his head. For how could any lady have -got into this room? It is just his imagination. I had once a little boy -before who was just the same, always seeing ladies and people whenever -he was the least excited. I will give him a dose in the morning, and if -he sees her again I would just send for the doctor. It is all physical, -miss, them sort of visions,” said the nurse, who was up to the science -of her time.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Lennox’s</span> cure went on through the greater part of the month of -September, and the friendship that had been begun so successfully grew -into intimacy perhaps in a shorter time than would have been credible -had the conditions of life been less easy. In the space of two or three -days Mr. Everard had become almost a member of Mrs. Lennox’s party. He -dined with them two evenings out of three. He walked by the elder lady’s -chair when she went to her bath, he was always ready to give her his arm -when she wished it, to help her to her favorite seat in the garden, to -choose a place for her from which she could most comfortably hear the -music. All these services to herself Aunt Sophy was quite aware were the -price the young man paid for permission to approach Rosalind, to admire -and address her, to form part of her surroundings, and by degrees to -become her almost constant companion. Mrs. Lennox<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> agreed with Mr. -Ruskin that this sort of apprenticeship in love was right and natural. -If in spite of all these privileges he failed to please, she would have -been sorry for him indeed, but would not have felt that he had any right -to complain. It was giving him his chance like another; and she was of -opinion that a lover or two on hand was a cheerful thing for a house. In -the days of Messrs. Hamerton and Rivers the effect had been very good, -and she had liked these unwearied attendants, these unpaid officers of -the household, who were always ready to get anything or do anything that -might happen to be wanted. It was lonely to be without one of those -hangers-on, and she accepted with a kind of mild enthusiasm the young -man who had begun his probation by so striking an exhibition of his -fitness for the post. It may be objected that her ready reception of a -stranger without any introduction or guarantee of his position was -imprudent in the extreme, for who could undertake that Rosalind might -not accept this suitor with more ready sympathy than she had shown for -the others? And there can be no doubt that this was the case; but as a -matter of fact Mrs. Lennox was not prudent, and it was scarcely to be -expected that she should exercise a virtue unfamiliar to her in respect -to the young man who had, as she loved to repeat, saved the lives of the -children. He was one of the Essex Everards, she made no doubt. She had -always forgotten to ask him, and as, she said, they had never got upon -the subject of his family, he had said nothing to her about them. But -there was nothing wonderful in that. It is always pleasant when a young -man does talk about his people, and lets you know how many brothers and -sisters he has, and all the family history, but a great many young men -don’t do so, and there was nothing at all wonderful about it in this -case. A young man who is at Aix for the baths, who has been at most -places where the travelling English go, who can talk like other people -about Rome and Florence, not to speak of a great many out-of-the-way -regions—it would be ridiculous to suppose that he was not “of our own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> -class.” Even Aunt Sophy’s not very fastidious taste detected a few wants -about him. He was not quite perfect in all points in his manners; he -hesitated when a man in society would not have hesitated. He had not -been at any university, nor even at a public school. All these things, -however, Mrs. Lennox accounted for easily—when she took the trouble to -think of them at all—by the supposition that he had been brought up at -home, most likely in the country. “Depend upon it, he is an only child,” -she said to Rosalind, “and he has been delicate—one can see that he is -delicate still—and they have brought him up at home. Well, perhaps it -is wrong—at least, all the gentlemen say so; but if I had an only child -I think I should very likely do the same, and I am sure I feel very much -for his poor mother. Why? Oh, because I don’t think he is strong, -Rosalind. He colors like a girl when he makes any little mistake. He is -not one of your bold young men that have a way of carrying off -everything. He does make little mistakes, but then that is one of the -things that is sure to happen when you bring boys up at home.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind, who became more and more inclined as the days went on to take -the best view of young Everard’s deficiencies, accepted very kindly this -explanation. It silenced finally, she believed, that chill and horrible -doubt, that question which she had put to herself broadly when she saw -him first, which she did not even insinuate consciously now, but which -haunted her, do what she would. Was he, perhaps, not exactly a -gentleman? No, she did not ask that now. No doubt Aunt Sophy (who -sometimes hit upon the right explanation, though she could not be called -clever) was right, and the secret of the whole matter was that he had -been brought up at home. There could be no doubt that the deficiencies -which had at first suggested this most awful of all questions became -rather interesting than otherwise when you came to know him better. They -were what might be called ignorances, self-distrusts, an unassured -condition of mind, rather than deficiencies; and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> blush over his -“little mistakes,” as Mrs. Lennox called them, and the half-uttered -apology and the deprecatory look, took away from a benevolent observer -all inclination towards unkindly criticism. Mrs. Lennox, who soon became -“quite fond of” the young stranger, told him frankly when he did -anything contrary to the code of society, and he took such rebukes in -the very best spirit, but was unfortunately apt to forget and fall into -the same blunder again. There were some of these mistakes which kept the -ladies in amusement, and some which made Rosalind, as she became more -and more “interested,” blush with hot shame—a far more serious feeling -than that which made the young offender blush. For instance, when he -found her sketch-book one morning, young Everard fell into ecstasies -over the sketch Rosalind had been making of the lake on that eventful -afternoon which had begun their intercourse. It was a very bad sketch, -and Rosalind knew it. That golden sheet of water, full of light, full of -reflections, with the sun blazing upon it, and the hills rising up on -every side, and the sky looking down into its depths, had become a piece -of yellow mud with daubs of blue and brown here and there, and the reeds -in the foreground looked as if they had been cut out of paper and pasted -on. “Don’t look at it. I can’t do very much, but yet I can do better -than that,” she had said, finding him in rapt contemplation of her -unsatisfactory performance, and putting out her hand to close the book. -He looked up at her, for he was seated by the table, hanging over the -sketch with rapture, with the most eager deprecation.</p> - -<p>“I think it is lovely,” he said; “don’t try to take away my enjoyment. I -wonder how any one can turn a mere piece of paper into a picture!”</p> - -<p>“You are laughing at me,” said Rosalind, with a little offence.</p> - -<p>“I—laughing! I would as soon laugh in church. I think it is beautiful. -I can’t imagine how you do it. Why, there are the reflections in the -water just as you see them. I never thought before that it was so -pretty.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh!” Rosalind cried, drawing a long breath. It hurt her that he should -say so, and it hurt still more to think that he was endeavoring to -please her by saying so. “I am sure it is your kindness that makes you -praise it; but, Mr. Everard, you must know that I am not quite ignorant. -When you say such things of this daub it sounds like contempt—as if you -thought I did not know better.”</p> - -<p>“But suppose I don’t know any better?” he said, looking up at her with -lustrous eyes full of humility, without even his usual self-disgust at -having said something wrong. “Indeed, you must believe me, I don’t. It -is quite true. Is it a fault, Miss Trevanion, when one does not know?”</p> - -<p>What could Rosalind say? She stood with her hand put out towards the -book, looking down upon the most expressive countenance, a face which of -itself was a model for a painter. There was very little difference -between them in age, perhaps a year or so to his advantage, not more; -and something of the freemasonry of youth was between them, besides the -more delicate link of sentiment. Yes, she said to herself, it was a -fault. A man, a gentleman, should not be so ignorant. Something must be -wrong before such ignorance could be. But how say this or anything like -it to her companion, who threw himself so entirely upon her mercy? She -closed the book that had been open before him and drew it hastily away.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid,” she said, “your eye is not good; of course it is no fault -except to think that <i>I</i> could be so silly, that I could accept praise -which I don’t deserve.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he said, “I see what you mean. You despise me for my ignorance, -and it is true I am quite ignorant; but then how could I help it? I have -never been taught.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Rosalind again, thinking the apology worse than the fault, -bad as that was. “But you have seen pictures—you have been in the -galleries?”</p> - -<p>“Without any instruction,” he said. “I do admire <i>that</i>, but I don’t -care for the galleries. Oh, but I never say so except to you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span></p> - -<p>She was silent in the dreadful situation in which she found herself. She -did not know how to behave, such unutterable want of perception had -never come in her way before.</p> - -<p>“Then I suppose,” she said, with awful calm, “the chromo-lithographs, -those are what you like? Mine is something like them, that is why you -approve of it, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“I like it,” he said simply, “because you were doing it that day, and -because that is where I saw you sitting when everything happened. And -because the lake and the mountains and the sky all seem yours to me -now.”</p> - -<p>This speech was of a character very difficult to ignore and pass over as -if it meant nothing. But Rosalind had now some experience, and was not -unused to such situations. She said hurriedly, “I see—it is the -association that interests you. I remember a very great person, a great -author, saying something like that. He said it was the story of the -pictures he liked, and when that pleased him he did not think so much -about the execution. If he had not been a great person he would not have -dared to say it. An artist, a true artist, would shiver to hear such a -thing. But that explains why you like my daub. It is better than if you -really thought it itself worthy of praise.”</p> - -<p>“But I—” here young Everard paused; he saw by her eyes that he must not -go any further, there was a little kindling of indignation in them. -Where had he been all his life that he did not know any better than -that? Had he gone on, Rosalind might not have been able to contain -herself, and there were premonitory symptoms in the air.</p> - -<p>“I wish,” he said, “that you would tell me what is nice and what isn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Nice! Oh, Mr, Everard!” Rosalind breathed out with a shudder. “Perhaps -you would call Michael Angelo nice,” she added, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“It is very likely that I might; you must forgive me. I have a relation -who laughs at me in the same way, but how can one know if one has never -been taught?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span></p> - -<p>“One is never taught such things,” it was on Rosalind’s lips to say, but -with an impatient sigh she forbore. Afterwards, when she began to -question herself on the subject, Rosalind took some comfort from the -thought that Roland Hamerton knew almost as little about art as it is -possible for a well-bred young Englishman to know. Ah! but that made all -the difference. He knew enough to have thought her sketch a dreadful -production; he knew enough to abhor the style of the chromo-lithograph. -Even a man who has been brought up at home must have seen the pictures -on his own walls. This thought cast her down again, but she began after -this to break up into small morsels adapted to her companion’s -comprehension the simplest principles of art, and to give him little -hints about the fundamental matters which are part of a gentleman’s -education in this respect, and even to indicate to him what terms are -commonly used. He was very quick; he did not laugh out at her efforts as -Roland would have done; he picked up the hints and adopted every -suggestion—all which compliances pleased Rosalind in a certain sense, -yet in another wrapped her soul in trouble, reviving again and again -that most dreadful of all possible doubts, just when she thought that it -had been safely laid to rest.</p> - -<p>And yet all the while this daily companion made his way into something -which, if not the heart, was dangerously near it, a sort of vestibule of -the heart, where those who enter may hope to go further with good luck. -He was ignorant in many ways. He did not know much more of books than of -pictures—sometimes he expressed an opinion which took away her -breath—and he was always on the watch for indications how far he might -go; a sort of vigilance which was highly uncomfortable, and suggested -some purpose on his part, some pursuit which was of more consequence to -him than his natural opinions or traditions, all of which he seemed -ready to sacrifice at a word. Rosalind was used to the ease of society, -an ease, perhaps, more apparent than real, and this eagerness -disconcerted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> her greatly. It was true that it might bear a flattering -interpretation, if it was to recommend himself to her that he was ready -to make all these sacrifices, to change even his opinions, to give up -everything that could displease her. If all expedients are fair in love, -is it not justifiable to watch that no word may offend, to express no -liking unless it is sure to be in harmony with the tastes of the object -loved, to be always on the alert and never to forget the purpose aimed -at? This question might, perhaps, by impartial persons, be considered -open to a doubt, but when one is one’s self the object of such profound -homage it is natural that the judgment should be slightly biassed. And -there was a certain personal charm about him notwithstanding all his -deficiencies. It was difficult for a girl not to be touched by the -devotion which shone upon her from such a pair of wonderful eyes.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">While</span> this intercourse was going on, and Mr. Everard became more and -more the associate of the ladies, the little shock that had been given -them by the result of Johnny’s excitement on the night of the accident -grew into something definite and rather alarming. Johnny was not ill—so -far as appeared, he was not even frightened; but he continued to see -“the lady” from time to time, and more than once a cry from the room in -which he slept had summoned Rosalind, and even Mrs. Lennox, forgetful of -her rheumatism. On these occasions Johnny would be found sitting up in -his bed, his great eyes like two lamps, shining even in the dim glow of -the night-light. It was at an hour when he should have been asleep, when -nurse had gone to her supper, and to that needful relaxation which -nurses as well as other mortals require. The child was not frightened, -but there was a certain excitement about this periodical awakening. “The -lady! the lady!” he said. “Oh, my darling,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> cried Aunt Sophy, -trembling; “what lady? There could be no lady. You have been dreaming. -Go to sleep, Johnny, and think of it no more.”</p> - -<p>“I sawed her,” cried the child. He pushed away Mrs. Lennox and clung to -Rosalind, who had her arms round him holding him fast. “I never was -asleep at all, Rosy; I just closed my eyes, and then I opened them and I -sawed the lady.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind, he has just been dreaming. Oh, Johnny dear, that is all -nonsense; there was no lady!” Aunt Sophy cried.</p> - -<p>“Tell me about her,” said Rosalind. “Was it a strange lady? Did you know -who she was?”</p> - -<p>“It is just <i>the</i> lady,” cried Johnny, impatiently. “I told you before. -She is much more taller than Aunt Sophy, with a black thing over her -head. She wouldn’t stay, because you came running, and she didn’t want -you. But I want the lady to speak to me— I want her to speak to me. Go -away, Rosy!” the little fellow cried.</p> - -<p>“Dear, the lady will not come back again to-night. Tell me about her. -Johnny, did you know who she was?”</p> - -<p>“I told you: she’s just <i>the</i> lady,” cried Johnny, with the air of one -whose explanation leaves nothing to be desired.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind, you are just encouraging him in his nonsense. He was -dreaming. My darling, you were dreaming. Nurse, here is this little boy -been dreaming again about the lady, as he calls her. You must give him a -dose. He must have got his little digestion all wrong. It can be nothing -but that, you know,” Aunt Sophy said. She drew the nurse, who had -hastened up from her hour’s relaxation in alarm, with her into the outer -room. Mrs. Lennox herself was trembling. She clutched the woman’s arm -with a nervous grasp. “What does he mean about this lady? Is there any -story about a lady? I am quite sure it is all nonsense, or that it is -just a dream,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a nervous flutter in the bow of -her cap. “Is there any story (though it is all nonsense) of a haunted -room or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> anything of that sort? If there is, I sha’n’t stay here, not -another day.”</p> - -<p>The nurse, however, had heard no such story: she stood whispering with -her mistress, talking over this strange occurrence, while Rosalind -soothed and quieted the excited child. Amy’s little bed was in the outer -room, but all was still there, the child never stirring, so absolutely -noiseless that her very presence was forgotten by the two anxious women -comparing notes. “He always keeps to the same story,” said nurse. “I -can’t tell what to make of it, ma’am, but Master Johnny always was a -little strange.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by a little strange? He is a dear child, he never -gives any trouble, he is just a darling,” Aunt Sophy said. “It is his -digestion that has got a little wrong. A shock like that of the other -day—it sometimes will not tell for some time, and as often as not it -puts their little stomachs wrong. A little medicine will set everything -right.”</p> - -<p>Nurse demurred to this, having notions of her own, and the discussion -went on till Rosalind, who had persuaded Johnny to compose himself, and -sat by him till he fell asleep, came out and joined them. “It will be -better for you not to leave him without calling me or some one,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“Miss Rosalind!” cried nurse, with natural desperation, “children is -dreadfully tiring to have them all day long, and every day. And nurses -is only flesh and blood like other people. If I’m never to have a -moment’s rest, day nor night, I think I shall go off my head.”</p> - -<p>All this went on in the room where little Amy lay asleep. She was so -still that she was not considered at all. She was, indeed, at all times -so little disposed to produce herself or make any call upon the -attention of those about her, that the family, as is general, took poor -little Amy at her own showing and left her to herself. It did not even -seem anything remarkable that she was so still—and nobody perceived the -pair of wide-open eyes with which she watched all that was going on -under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> corner of the coverlet. Even Rosalind scarcely looked towards -her little sister’s bed, and all the pent-up misery and terror which a -child can conceal (and how much that implies) lay unconsoled and -unlightened in poor little Amy’s breast. Meanwhile Johnny had fallen -fast asleep, untroubled by any further thought of the apparition which -only he was supposed to have seen.</p> - -<p>This brought a great deal of trouble into the minds of Johnny’s -guardians. Mrs. Lennox was so nearly breaking down under a sense of the -responsibility that her rheumatism, instead of improving with her baths, -grew worse than ever, and she became so stiff that Rosalind and Everard -together were needed, each at one arm, to raise her from her chair. The -doctor was sent for, who examined Johnny, and, after hearing all the -story, concluded that it was suppressed gout in the child’s system, and -that baths to bring it out would be the best cure. He questioned Mrs. -Lennox so closely as to her family and all their antecedents that it -very soon appeared a certain fact that all the Trevanions had suffered -from suppressed gout, which explained everything, and especially all -peculiarities in the mind or conduct. “The little boy,” said the doctor, -who spoke English so well, “is the victim of the physiological sins of -his forefathers. Pardon, madam; I do not speak in a moral point of view. -They drank Oporto wine and he sees what you call ghosts; the succession -is very apparent. This child,” turning to Amy, who stood by, “she also -has suppressed gout.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Amy is quite well,” cried Aunt Sophy; “there is nothing at all the -matter with Amy. But it cannot be denied that there is gout in the -family. Indeed, when gentlemen come to a certain age they always suffer -in that way, though I am sure I don’t know why. My poor father and -grandfather, too, as I have always heard. Your papa, Rosalind, with him -it was the heart.”</p> - -<p>“They are all connected. Rheumatism, it is the brother of gout, and -rheumatism is the tyrant which affects the heart. No,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> my dear young -lady, it is not the emotions, nor love, nor disappointment, nor any of -the pretty things you think; it is rheumatism that is most fatal for the -heart. I will settle for the little boy a course of baths, and he will -see no more ladies; that is,” said the doctor, with a wave of his hand, -“except the very charming ladies whom he has a right to see. But this -child, she has it more pronounced; she is more ill than the little boy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, doctor, it is only that Amy is always pale; there is nothing -the matter with her. Do you feel anything the matter with you, Amy, my -dear?”</p> - -<p>“No, Aunt Sophy,” said the little girl in a very low voice, turning her -head away.</p> - -<p>“I told you so; there is nothing the matter with her. She is a pale -little thing. She never has any color. But Johnny! Doctor, oh, I hope -you will do your best for Johnny! He quite destroys all our peace and -comfort. I am afraid to open my eyes after I go to bed, lest I should -see the lady too; for that sort of thing is very catching. You get it -into your mind. If there is any noise I can’t account for, I feel -disposed to scream. I am sure I shall be seeing it before long if Johnny -gets no better. But I have always supposed in such cases that it was the -digestion that was out of order,” Mrs. Lennox said, returning, but -doubtfully, to her original view.</p> - -<p>“It is all the same thing,” said the doctor, cheerfully waving his hand; -and then he patted Johnny on the head, who was half overawed, half -pleased, to have an illness which procured unlimited petting without any -pain. The little fellow began his baths immediately, but next night he -saw the lady again. This time he woke and found her bending over him, -and gave forth the cry which was now so well known by all the party. -Mrs. Lennox, who rushed into the room the first, being in her own -chamber, which was near Johnny’s, had to be led back to the sitting-room -in a state of nervous prostration, trembling and sobbing. When she was -placed in her chair and a glass of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> wine administered to her, she -declared that she had seen it too. “Oh, how can you ask me what it was? -I saw something move. Do you think,” with a gasp, “Rosalind, that one -can keep one’s wits about one, with all that going on? I am sure I saw -something—something black go out of the door—or at least something -moved. The curtain? oh, how can you say it was the curtain? I never -thought of that. Are you sure you didn’t see anything, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“I saw the wind in the curtain, Aunt Sophy: the window was open, and it -blew out and almost frightened me too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I could not say I was frightened,” said Mrs. Lennox, grasping -Rosalind’s hand tight. “A curtain does bulge out with the wind, doesn’t -it? I never thought of that. I saw something—move—I—wasn’t -frightened, only a little nervous. Perhaps it was—the wind in the -curtain. You are sure you were frightened too.”</p> - -<p>“It blew right out upon me, like some one coming to meet me.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Sophy grasped Rosalind’s hand tight. “It must have some -explanation,” she said. “It couldn’t be anything super— You don’t -believe in—that sort of thing, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“Dear Aunt Sophy, I am sure it was the curtain. I saw it too. I would -not say so if I did not feel—sure—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, what a comfort it is to have a cool head like yours. -You’re not carried away by your feelings like me. I’m so sympathetic, I -feel as other people feel; to hear Johnny cry just made me I can’t tell -how. It was dreadfully like some one moving, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Aunt Sophy. When the wind got into the folds, it was exactly like -some one moving.”</p> - -<p>“You are sure it was the curtain, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>Poor Rosalind was as little sure as any imaginative girl could be; she, -too, was very much shaken by Johnny’s vision; at her age it is so much -more easy to believe in the supernatural than in spectral illusions or -derangement of the digestion. She did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> not believe that the stomach was -the source of fancy, or that imagination only meant a form of suppressed -gout. Her nerves were greatly disturbed, and she was as ready to see -anything, if seeing depended upon an excited condition, as any young and -impressionable person ever was. She was glad to soothe Mrs. Lennox with -an easy explanation. But Rosalind did not believe that it was the -curtain which had deceived Johnny. Neither did she believe in the baths, -or in the suppressed gout. She was convinced in her mind that the child -spoke the truth, and that it was some visitor from the unseen who came -to him. But who was it? Dark fears crossed her mind, and many a wistful -wonder. There were no family warnings among the Trevanions, or it is to -be feared that reason would have yielded in Rosalind’s mind to nature -and faith. As it was, her heart grew feverish and expectant. The arrival -of the letters from England every morning filled her with terror. She -dreaded to see a black-bordered envelope, a messenger of death.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnny</span> throve, notwithstanding his visions. He woke up in the morning -altogether unaffected, so far as appeared, by what he saw at night. He -had always been more or less the centre of interest, both by dint of -being the only male member of the party and because he was the youngest, -and he was more than ever the master of the situation now. He did not -mind his baths, and he relished the importance of his position. So much -time as Mrs. Lennox had free from her “cure” was entirely occupied with -Johnny. She thought he wanted “nourishment” of various dainty kinds, to -which the little fellow had not the least objection. Secretly in her -heart Aunt Sophy was opposed to the idea of suppressed gout, and clung -to that of impaired digestion. Delicate fricassees of chicken, game, the -earliest products of <i>la chasse</i>, she ordered for him instead of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> the -roast mutton of old. He had fine custards and tempting jellies, while -Sophy and Amy ate their rice pudding; and in the intervals between his -meals Aunt Sophy administered glasses of wine, cups of jelly, hunches of -spongecake, to the boy. He took it all with the best grace in the -world—and an appetite which it was a pleasure to see—and throve and -grew, but nevertheless still saw the lady at intervals with a -pertinacity which was most discouraging. It may be supposed that an -incident so remarkable had not passed without notice in the curious -little community of the hotel. And the first breath of it, whispered by -nurse in the ear of some confidante, brought up the landlady from the -bureau in a painful condition of excitement, first to inquire and then -to implore that complete secrecy might be kept on the matter. Madame -protested that there was no ghost in her well-regulated house. If the -little boy saw anything it must be a ghost whom the English family had -brought with them: such things, it was well known, did exist in English -houses. But there were no ghosts in Aix, much less in the Hotel Venat. -To request ladies in the middle of their cure to find other quarters was -impossible, not to say that Madame Lennox and her charming family were -quite the most distinguished party at the hotel, and one which she would -not part with on any consideration; but if the little monsieur continued -to have his digestion impaired (and she could recommend a most excellent -<i>tisane</i> that worked marvels), might she beg <i>ces dames</i> to keep silence -on the subject? The reputation of a hotel was like that of a woman, and -if once breathed upon— Mrs. Lennox remained in puzzling and puzzled -silence for some time after this visit was over. About a quarter of an -hour after her thought burst forth.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind! I don’t feel at all reassured by what that woman said. Why -should she make all that talk about the house if there wasn’t some truth -in it? It is a very creepy, disagreeable thing to think of, and us -living on the very brink of it, so to speak. But, after all, what if -Johnny’s lady should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> be something—some—appearance, some mystery about -the house?”</p> - -<p>“You thought it was Johnny’s digestion, Aunt Sophy.”</p> - -<p>“So I did: but then, you know, one says that sort of thing when one -can’t think of anything else. I believe it is his digestion, but, at the -same time, how can one tell what sort of things may have happened in -great big foreign houses, and so many queer people coming and going? -There might have been a murder or something, for anything we know.”</p> - -<p>This suggestion awoke a tremor in Rosalind’s heart, for she was not very -strong-minded, nor fortified by any consistent opinion in respect to -ghosts. She said somewhat faintly, with a laugh, “I never heard of a -ghost in a hotel.”</p> - -<p>“In a hotel? I should think a hotel was just the sort of place, with all -kinds of strange people. Mind, however,” said Aunt Sophy after a pause, -“I don’t believe in ghosts at all, not at all; there are no such things. -Only foolish persons, servants and the uneducated, put any faith in them -(it was the entrance of Amy and Sophy in the midst of this discussion -that called forth such a distinct profession of faith); and now your -Uncle John is coming,” she added cheerfully, “and it will all be cleared -up and everything will come right.”</p> - -<p>“Will Uncle John clear up about the lady?” said Sophy, with a toss of -her little impertinent head. “He will just laugh, I know. He will say he -wished he had ladies come to see him like that. Uncle John,” said this -small critic, “is never serious at all about us children. Oh, perhaps -about you grown-up people; but he will just laugh, I know. And so shall -I laugh. All the fuss that is made is because Johnny is the boy. Me and -Amy, we might see elephants and you would not mind, Aunt Sophy. It is -because Johnny is the boy.”</p> - -<p>“You are a little impertinent! I think just as much about Amy—and the -child is looking pale, don’t you think so, Rosalind? But you are never -disturbed in your sleep, my pet, nor take things in your little head. -You are the quietest little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> woman. Indeed, I wish she would be naughty -sometimes, Rosalind. What is the matter with you, dear? Don’t you want -me to talk to you? Well, if my arm is disagreeable, Amy—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no, Aunt Sophy!” cried the child, with an impetuous kiss, but -she extricated herself notwithstanding, and went away to the farther -window, where she sat down on a footstool, half hidden among the -curtains. The two ladies, looking at her, began to remember at the same -moment that this had become Amy’s habitual place. She was always so -quiet that to become a little quieter was not remarked in her as it -would have been in the other children: she had always been pale, but not -so pale as now. The folds of the long white curtain, falling half over -her, added to the delicacy of her aspect. She seemed to shrink and hide -herself from their gaze, though she was not conscious of it.</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” said Aunt Sophy, “perhaps there is something after all in the -doctor’s idea of suppressed gout being in the family. You don’t show any -signs of it, Rosalind, Heaven be praised! or Sophy either; but just look -at that child, how pale she is!”</p> - -<p>Rosalind did not make any reply. She called her little sister to her -presently, but Amy declared that she was “reading a book,” which was, -under Mrs. Lennox’s sway, a reason above all others for leaving the -little student undisturbed. Mrs. Lennox had not been used to people who -were given to books, and she admired the habit greatly. “Don’t call her -if she is reading, Rosalind. I wonder how it is the rest of you don’t -read. But Amy always has her book. Perhaps it is because of reading so -much that she is so pale. Well, Uncle John is coming to-morrow, and he -will want the children to take long walks, and I dare say all this -little confusion will blow away. I wish John had come a little sooner; -he might have tried the ‘cure’ as well as me, for I am sure he has -rheumatism, if not gout. Gentlemen always have one or the other when -they come to your uncle’s age, and it might have saved him an illness -later,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> said Aunt Sophy. She had to go away in her chair, in a few -minutes, for her bath, and it was this that made her think what an -excellent thing it would be for John.</p> - -<p>When she had gone, Rosalind sat very silent with her two little sisters -in the room. Sophy went on talking, while Rosalind mused and kept -silent. She was so well accustomed to Sophy talking that she took little -notice of it. When the little girl said anything of sufficient -importance to penetrate the mist of self-abstraction in which her sister -sat, Rosalind would answer her. But generally she took little notice. -She woke up, however, in the midst of one of Sophy’s sentences which -caught her ear, she could not tell why.</p> - -<p>“Think it’s a real lady?” Sophy said. It was at the end of a long -monologue, during which her somewhat sharp voice had run on monotonous -without variety. “Think it’s a real lady? There could be no ghost here, -or if there was, why should it go to Johnny, who don’t understand, who -has no sense. I think it’s a real lady that comes in to look at the -children. Perhaps she is fond of children; perhaps she’s not in her -right mind,” said Sophy; “perhaps she has lost a little boy like Johnny; -perhaps—” here she clapped her hands together, which startled Rosalind -greatly, and made little Amy, looking up with big eyes from within the -curtain, jump from her seat; “I know who it is—it is the lady that gave -him the toy.”</p> - -<p>“The toy—what toy?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know very well, Rosalind. That is what it is—the lady that had -lost a child like Johnny, that brought him that thing that you wind up, -that runs, that nurse says must have cost a mint of money. She says mint -of money, and why shouldn’t I? I shall watch to-night, and try if I -can’t see her,” cried Sophy; “that is the lady! and Johnny is such a -little silly he has never found it out. But it is a <i>real</i> lady, that I -am quite certain, whatever the children say.”</p> - -<p>“But Amy has never seen anything, Sophy, or heard anything,” Rosalind -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind, how soft you are! How could she help hearing about it, -with Aunt Sophy and you rampaging in the room every night! You don’t -know how deep she is; she would just go on and go on, and never tell.”</p> - -<p>“Amy, come here,” said Rosalind.</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, Rosy! I am in such an interesting part.”</p> - -<p>“Amy, come here—you can go back to your book after. Sophy says you have -heard about the lady Johnny thinks he sees.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“You have known about her perhaps all the time, though we thought you -slept so sound and heard nothing! You don’t mean that you have seen her -too?”</p> - -<p>Amy stood by her sister’s knee, her hand reluctantly allowing itself to -be held in Rosalind’s hand. She submitted to this questioning with the -greatest reluctance, her little frame all instinct with eagerness to get -away. But here she gave a hasty look upward as if drawn by the -attraction of Rosalind’s eyes. How strange that no one had remarked how -white and small she had grown! She gave her sister a solemn, momentary -look, with eyes that seemed to expand as they looked, but said nothing.</p> - -<p>“Amy, can’t you answer me?” Rosalind cried.</p> - -<p>Amy’s eyelids grew big with unwilling tears, and she made a great effort -to draw away her hand.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, Amy, is there anything you can’t tell Rosalind? You shall not -be worried or scolded, but tell me.”</p> - -<p>There was a little pause, and then the child flung her arms round her -sister’s neck and hid her face. “Oh, Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my darling, what is it? Tell me!”</p> - -<p>Amy clung as if she would grow there, and pressed her little head, as if -the contact strengthened her, against the fair pillar of Rosalind’s -throat. But apparently it was easier to cling there and give vent to a -sob or two than to speak. She pressed closer and closer, but she made no -reply.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span></p> - -<p>“She has seen her every time,” said Sophy, “only she’s such a story she -won’t tell. She is always seeing her. When you think she’s asleep she is -lying all shivering and shaking with the sheet over her head. That is -how I found out. She is so frightened she can’t go to sleep. I said I -should tell Rosalind; Rosalind is the eldest, and she ought to know. But -then, Amy thinks—”</p> - -<p>“What, Sophy?”</p> - -<p>“Well, that you are only our half-sister. You <i>are</i> only our -half-sister, you know. We all think that, and perhaps you wouldn’t -understand.”</p> - -<p>To Rosalind’s heart this sting of mistrust went sharp and keen, -notwithstanding the close strain of the little girl’s embrace which -seemed to protest against the statement. “Is it really, really so?” she -cried, in a voice of anguish. “Do you think I am not your real sister, -you little ones? Have I done anything to make you think—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no! Oh, Rosalind, no! Oh, no, no!” cried the little girl, -clasping closer and closer. The ghost, if it was a ghost, the “lady” -who, Sophy was sure, was a “real lady,” disappeared in the more -immediate pressure of this poignant question. Even Rosalind, who had now -herself to be consoled, forgot, in the pang of personal suffering, to -inquire further.</p> - -<p>And they were still clinging together in excitement and tears when the -door was opened briskly, and Uncle John, all brown and dusty and -smiling, a day too soon, and much pleased with himself for being so, -suddenly marched into the room. A more extraordinary change of sentiment -could not be conceived. The feminine tears dried up in a moment, the -whole aspect of affairs changed. He was so strong, so brown, so cordial, -so pleased to see them, so full of cheerful questions, and the account -of what he had done. “Left London only yesterday,” he said, “and here I -am. What’s the matter with Amy? Crying! You must let her off, Rosalind, -whatever the sin may be, for my sake.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> arrival of John Trevanion made a great difference to the family -group, which had become absorbed, as women are so apt to be, in the -circle of little interests about them, and to think Johnny’s visions the -most important things in the world. Uncle John would hear nothing at all -of Johnny’s visions. “Pooh!” he said. Mrs. Lennox was half disposed to -think him brutal and half to think him right. He scoffed at the -fricassee of chicken and the cups of jelly. “He looks as well as -possible,” said Uncle John. “Amy is a little shadow, but the boy is fat -and flourishing,” and he laughed with an almost violent effusion of -mirth at the idea of the suppressed gout. “Get them all off to some -place among the hills, or, if it is too late for that, come home,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“But, John, my cure!” cried Mrs. Lennox; “you don’t know how rheumatic I -have become. If it was not a little too late I should advise you to try -it too; for, of course, we have gout in the family, whatever you may -say, and it might save you an illness another time. Rosalind, was not -Mr. Everard coming to lunch? I quite forgot him in the pleasure of -seeing your uncle. Perhaps we ought to have waited, but, then, John, -coming off his journey, wanted his luncheon; and I dare say Mr. Everard -will not mind. He is always so obliging. He would not mind going without -his luncheon altogether to serve a friend.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Mr. Everard?” said John Trevanion. He was pleased to meet them -all, and indisposed to find fault with anything. Why should he go -without his lunch?</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is very nice,” said Aunt Sophy somewhat evasively; “he is here -for his ‘cure,’ like all the rest. Surely I wrote to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> you, or some one -wrote to you, about the accident with the boat, and how the children’s -lives were saved? Well, this is the gentleman. He has been a great deal -with us ever since. He is quite young, but I think he looks younger than -he is, and he has very nice manners,” Mrs. Lennox continued, with a dim -sense, which began to grow upon her, that explanations were wanted, and -a conciliatory fulness of detail. “It is very kind of him making himself -so useful as he does. I ask him quite freely to do anything for me; and, -of course, being a young person, it is more cheerful for Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>Here she made a little pause, in which for the first time there was a -consciousness of guilt, or, if not of guilt, of imprudence. John might -think that a young person who made things more cheerful for Rosalind -required credentials. John might look as gentlemen have a way of looking -at individuals of their own sex introduced in their absence. Talk of -women being jealous of each other, Aunt Sophy said to herself, but men -are a hundred times more! and she began to wish that Mr. Everard might -forget his engagement, and not walk in quite so soon into the family -conclave. Rosalind’s mind, too, was disturbed by the same thought; she -felt that it would be better if Mr. Everard did not come, if he would -have the good taste to stay away when he heard of the new arrival. But -Rosalind, though she had begun to like him, and though her imagination -was touched by his devotion, had not much confidence in Everard’s good -taste. He would hesitate, she thought, he would ponder, but he would not -be so wise as to keep away. As a matter of fact this last reflection had -scarcely died from her mind when Everard came in, a little flushed and -anxious, having heard of the arrival, but regarding it from an opposite -point of view. He thought that it would be well to get the meeting over -while John Trevanion was still in the excitement of the reunion and -tired with his journey. There were various changes in his own appearance -since he had been at Highcourt, and he was three years older, but on the -other side he remembered so well<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> his own meeting with Rosalind’s uncle -that he could not suppose himself to be more easily forgotten. In fact, -John Trevanion had a slight movement of surprise at sight of the young -intruder, and a vague sense of recognition as he met the eyes which -looked at him with a mixture of anxiety and deprecation. But he got up -and held out his hand, and said a few words of thanks for the great -service which Mr. Everard had rendered to the family, with the best -grace in the world, and though the presence of a stranger could scarcely -be felt otherwise than as an intrusion at such a moment, Everard himself -was perhaps the person least conscious of it. Rosalind, on the other -hand, was very conscious of it, and uncomfortably conscious that Everard -was not, yet ought to have been, aware of the inappropriateness of his -appearance. There was thus a certain cloud over the luncheon hour, which -would have been very merry and very pleasant but for the one individual -who did not belong to the party, and who, though wistfully anxious to -recommend himself, to do everything or anything possible to make himself -agreeable, yet could not see that the one thing to be done was to take -himself away. When he did so at last, John Trevanion broke off what he -was saying hurriedly—he was talking of Reginald, at school, a subject -very interesting to them all—and, turning to Rosalind, said, “I know -that young fellow’s face; where have I seen him before?”</p> - -<p>“I know, Uncle John,” cried Sophy; “he is the gentleman who was staying -at the Red Lion in the village, don’t you remember, before we left -Highcourt. Rosalind knew him directly, and so did I.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Rosalind, faltering a little. “You remember I met you once -when he had done me a little service; that,” she said, with a sense that -she was making herself his advocate, and a deprecating, conciliatory -smile, “seems to be his specialty, to do people services.”</p> - -<p>“The gentleman who was at the Red Lion!” cried John Trevanion with a -start. “The fellow who——” and then he stopped<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> short and cast upon his -guileless sister a look which made Mrs. Lennox tremble.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear, dear, what have I done?” Aunt Sophy cried.</p> - -<p>“Nothing; it is of no consequence,” said he; but he got up, thrusting -his hands deep into his pockets, and walked about from one window to -another, and stared gloomily forth, without adding any more.</p> - -<p>“But he is very nice now,” said Sophy; “he is much more nicely dressed, -and I think he is handsome—rather. He is like Johnny a little. It was -nice of him, don’t you think, Uncle John, to save the children? They -weren’t anything to him, you know, and yet he went plunging into the -water with his clothes on—for, of course, he could not stop to take off -his clothes, and he couldn’t have done it either before Rosalind—and -had to walk all the way home in his wet trousers, all for the sake of -these little things. Everybody would not have done it,” said Sophy, with -importance, speaking as one who knew human nature. “It was very nice, -don’t you think, of Mr. Everard.”</p> - -<p>“Everard! Was that the name?” said Uncle John, incoherently; and he did -not sit down again, but kept walking up and down the long room in a way -some men have, to the great annoyance of Mrs. Lennox, who did not like -to see people, as she said, roving about like wild beasts. A certain -uneasiness had got into the atmosphere somehow, no one could tell why, -and when the children were called out for their walk Rosalind too -disappeared, with a consciousness, that wounded her and yet seemed -somehow a fault in herself, that the elders would be more at ease -without her presence.</p> - -<p>When they were all gone John turned upon his sister. “Sophy,” he said, -“I remember how you took me to task for bringing Rivers, a man of -character and talent, to the house, because his parentage was somewhat -obscure. Have you ever asked yourself what your own meaning was in -allowing a young adventurer, whose very character, I fear, will not bear -looking into, to make himself agreeable to Rosalind?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span></p> - -<p>“John!” cried Mrs. Lennox, with a sudden scream, sitting up very upright -in her chair, and in her fright taking off her spectacles to see him the -better.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” cried John Trevanion, “I mean what I say. He has managed to make -himself agreeable to Rosalind. She takes his part already. She is -troubled when he puts himself in a false position.”</p> - -<p>“But, John, what makes you think he is an adventurer? I am quite sure he -is one of the Essex Everards, who are as good a family and as well -thought of—”</p> - -<p>“Did he tell you he was one of the Essex Everards?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lennox put on a very serious air of trying to remember. She bit her -lips, she contracted her forehead, she put up her hand to her head. “I -am sure,” she said, “I cannot recollect whether he ever <i>said</i> it, but I -have always understood. Why, what other Everards could he belong to?” -she added, in the most candid tone.</p> - -<p>“That is just the question,” said John Trevanion; “the same sort of -Everards perhaps as my friend’s Riverses, or most likely not half so -good. Indeed, I’m not at all sure that your friend has any right even to -the name he claims. I both saw and heard of him before we left -Highcourt. By Jove!” He was not a man to swear, even in this easy way, -but he jumped up from the seat upon which he had thrown himself and grew -so red that Aunt Sophy immediately thought of the suppressed gout in the -family, and felt that it must suddenly have gone to his head.</p> - -<p>“Oh, John, my dear! what is it?” she cried.</p> - -<p>He paced about the room back and forward in high excitement, repeating -to himself that exclamation. “Oh, nothing, nothing! I can’t quite tell -what it is,” he said.</p> - -<p>“A twinge in your foot,” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Oh, John, though it is -late, very late, in the season, and you could not perhaps follow out the -cure altogether, you might at least take some of the baths as they are -ordered for Johnny. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> might prevent an illness hereafter. It might, if -you took it in time—”</p> - -<p>“What is a ‘cure’?” said John. Mrs. Lennox pronounced the word, as -indeed it is intended that the reader should pronounce it in this -history, in the French way; but this in her honest mouth, used to good, -downright English pronunciation, sounded like <i>koor</i>, and the brother -did not know what it was. He laughed so long and so loudly at the idea -of preventing an illness by the cure, as he called it with English -brutality, and at the notion of Johnny’s baths, that Mrs. Lennox was -quite disconcerted and could not find a word to say.</p> - -<p>Rosalind had withdrawn with her mind full of disquietude. She was vexed -and annoyed by Everard’s ignorance of the usages of society and the -absence of perception in him. He should not have come up when he heard -that Uncle John had arrived; he should not have stayed. But Rosalind -reflected with a certain resentment and impatience that it was -impossible to make him aware of this deficiency, or to convey to him in -any occult way the perceptions that were wanting. This is not how a girl -thinks of her lover, and yet she was more disturbed by his failure to -perceive than any proceeding on the part of a person in whom she was not -interested could have made her. She had other cares in her mind, -however, which soon asserted a superior claim. Little Amy’s pale face, -her eyes so wistful and pathetic, which seemed to say a thousand things -and to appeal to Rosalind’s knowledge with a trust and faith which were -a bitter reproach to Rosalind, had given her a sensation which she could -not overcome. Was she too wanting in perception, unable to divine what -her little sister meant? It was well for her to blame young Everard and -to blush for his want of perception, she, who could not understand -little Amy! Her conversation with the children had thrown another light -altogether on Johnny’s vision. What if it were no trick of the -digestion, no excitement of the spirit, but something real, whether in -the body or out of the body, something with meaning in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span> it? She resolved -that she would not allow this any longer to go on without investigation, -and, with a little thrill of excitement in her, arranged her plans for -the evening. It was not without a tremor that Rosalind took this -resolution. She had already many times taken nurse’s place without any -particular feeling on the subject, with the peaceful result that Johnny -slept soundly and nobody was disturbed; but this easy watch did not -satisfy her now. Notwithstanding the charm of Uncle John’s presence, -Rosalind hastened up-stairs after dinner when the party streamed forth -to take coffee in the garden, denying herself the pleasant stroll with -him which she had looked forward to, and which he in his heart was -wounded to see her withdraw from without a word. She flew along the -half-lighted passages with her heart beating high.</p> - -<p>The children’s rooms were in their usual twilight, the faint little -night-lamp in its corner, the little sleepers breathing softly in the -gloom. Rosalind placed herself unconsciously out of sight from the door, -sitting down behind Johnny’s bed, though without any intention by so -doing of hiding herself. If it were possible that any visitor from the -unseen came to the child’s bed, what could it matter that the watcher -was out of sight? She sat down there with a beating heart in the -semi-darkness which made any occupation impossible, and after a while -fell into the thoughts which had come prematurely to the mother-sister, -a girl, and yet with so much upon her young shoulders. The arrival of -her uncle brought back the past to her mind. She thought of all that had -happened, with the tears gathering thick in her eyes. Where was <i>she</i> -now that should have had these children in her care? Oh, where was she? -would she never even try to see them, never break her bonds and claim -the rights of nature? How could she give them up—how could she do it? -Or could it be, Rosalind asked herself—or rather did not ask herself, -but in the depths of her heart was aware of the question which came -independent of any will of hers—that there was some reason, some new -conditions, which made the breach in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> her life endurable, which made the -mother forget her children? The girl’s heart grew sick as she sat thus -thinking, with the tears silently dropping from her eyes, wondering upon -the verge of that dark side of human life in which such mysteries are, -wondering whether it were possible, whether such things could be?</p> - -<p>A faint sound roused her from this preoccupation. She turned her head. -Oh, what was it she saw? The lady of Johnny’s dream had come in while -Rosalind had forgotten her watch, and stood looking at him in his little -bed. Rosalind’s lips opened to cry out, but the cry seemed stifled in -her throat. The spectre, if it were a spectre, half raised the veil that -hung about her head and gazed at the child, stooping forward, her hands -holding the lace in such an attitude that she seemed to bless him as he -lay—a tall figure, all black save for the whiteness of the half-seen -face. Rosalind had risen noiselessly from her chair; she gazed too as if -her eyes would come out of their sockets, but she was behind the curtain -and unseen. Whether it was that her presence diffused some sense of -protection round, or that the child was in a more profound sleep than -usual, it was impossible to tell, but Johnny never moved, and his -visitor stood bending towards him without a breath or sound. Rosalind, -paralyzed in body, overwhelmed in her mind with terror, wonder, -confusion, stood and looked on with sensations beyond description, as if -her whole soul was suspended on the event. Had any one been there to -see, the dark room, with the two ghostly, silent figures in it, -noiseless, absorbed, one watching the other, would have been the -strangest sight. But Rosalind was conscious of nothing save of life -suspended, hanging upon the next movement or sound, and never knew how -long it was that she stood, all power gone from her, watching, scarcely -breathing, unable to speak or think. Then the dark figure turned, and -there seemed to breathe into the air something like a sigh. It was the -only sound; not even the softest footfall on the carpet or rustle of -garments seemed to accompany her movements,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> slow and reluctant, towards -the doorway. Then she seemed to pause again on the threshold between the -two rooms, within sight of the bed in which Amy lay. Rosalind followed, -feeling herself drawn along by a power not her own, herself as noiseless -as a ghost. The strain upon her was so intense that she was incapable of -feeling, and stood mechanically, her eyes fixed, her heart now -fluttering wildly, now standing still altogether. The moment came, -however, when this tension was too much. Beyond the dark figure in the -doorway she saw, or thought she saw, Amy’s eyes, wild and wide open, -appealing to her from the bed. Her little sister’s anguish of terror and -appeal for help broke the spell and made Rosalind’s suspense -intolerable. She made a wild rush forward, her frozen voice broke forth -in a hoarse cry. She put out her hands and grasped or tried to grasp the -draperies of the mysterious figure; then, as they escaped her, fell -helpless, blind, unable to sustain herself, but not unconscious, by -Amy’s bed, upon the floor.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Down</span> below, in the garden of the hotel, all was cheerful enough, and -most unlike the existence of any mystery here or elsewhere. The night -was very soft and mild, though dark, the scent of the mignonette in the -air, and most of the inhabitants of the hotel sitting out among the -dark, rustling shrubs and under the twinkling lights, which made -effects, too strong to be called picturesque, of light and shade among -the many groups who were too artificial for pictorial effect, yet made -up a picture like the art of the theatre, effective, striking, full of -brilliant points. The murmur of talk was continuous, softened by the -atmosphere, yet full of laughter and exclamations which were not soft. -High above, the stars were shining in an atmosphere of their own, almost -chill with the purity and remoteness of another world. At some of the -tables the parties were not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span> gay; here and there a silent English couple -sat and looked on, half disapproving, half wistful, with a look in their -eyes that said, how pleasant it must be when people can thus enjoy -themselves, though in all likelihood how wrong! Among these English -observers were Mrs. Lennox and John Trevanion.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lennox had no hat on, but a light white shawl of lacey texture over -her cap, and her face full in the light. She was in no trouble about -Rosalind’s absence, which she took with perfect calm. The girl had gone, -no doubt, to sit with the children, or she had something to do -up-stairs— Mrs. Lennox was aware of all the little things a girl has to -do. But she was dull, and did not find John amusing. Mrs. Lennox would -have thought it most unnatural to subject a brother to such criticism in -words, or to acknowledge that it was necessary for him to be amusing to -make his society agreeable. Such an idea would have been a blasphemy -against nature, which, of course, makes the society of one’s brother -always delightful, whether he has or has not anything to say. But -granting this, and that she was, of course, a great deal happier by -John’s side, and that it was delightful to have him again, still she was -a little dull. The conversation flagged, even though she had a great -power of keeping it up by herself when need was; but when you only get -two words in answer to a question which it has taken you five minutes to -ask, the result is discouraging; and she looked round her with a great -desire for some amusement and a considerable envy of the people at the -next table, who were making such a noise! How they laughed, how the -conversation flew on, full of fun evidently, full of wit, no doubt, if -one could only understand. No doubt it is rather an inferior thing to be -French or Russian or whatever they were, and not English; and to enjoy -yourself so much out of doors in public is vulgar perhaps. But still -Mrs. Lennox envied a little while she disapproved, and so did the other -English couple on the other side. Aunt Sophy even had begun to yawn and -to think it would perhaps be better for her rheumatism to go in and get -to bed, when she perceived<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> the familiar figure of young Everard amid -the shadows, looking still more wistfully towards her. She made him a -sign with great alacrity and pleasure, as she was in the habit of doing, -for indeed he joined them every night, or almost every night. When she -had done this, and had drawn a chair towards her for him, then and not -till then Mrs. Lennox suddenly remembered that John might not like it. -That was very true— John might not like it! What a pity she had not -thought of it sooner? But why shouldn’t John like such a very nice, -friendly, serviceable young man. Men were so strange! they took such -fancies about each other. All this flashed through her mind after she -had made that friendly sign to Everard, and indicated the chair.</p> - -<p>“Is any one coming?” asked John, roused by these movements.</p> - -<p>“Only Mr. Everard, John; he usually comes in the evening—please be -civil to him,” she cried in dismay.</p> - -<p>“Oh, civil!” said John Trevanion; he pushed away his chair almost -violently, with the too rapid reflection, so easily called forth, that -Sophy was a fool and had no thought, and the intention of getting up and -going away. But then he bethought himself that it would be well to see -what sort of fellow this young man was. It would be necessary, he said -to himself sternly, that there should be an explanation before the -intimacy went any further, but, in the meantime, as fortunately Rosalind -was absent (he said this to himself with a forlorn sort of smile at his -former disappointment), it would be a good opportunity to see what was -in him. Accordingly he did not get up as he intended, but only pushed -his chair away, as the young man approached with a hesitating and -somewhat anxious air. John gave him a gruff nod, but said nothing, and -sat by, a grim spectator, taking no part in the conversation, as Mrs. -Lennox broke into eager, but, in consequence of his presence, somewhat -embarrassed and uneasy talk.</p> - -<p>“I thought we were not to see you to-night,” she said. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> thought there -might be something going on, perhaps. We never know what is going on -except when you bring us word, Mr. Everard. I do think, though the Venat -is supposed to be the best hotel, that madame is not at all enterprising -about getting up a little amusement. To be sure, the season is almost -over. I suppose that is the cause.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there is anything going on except the usual music and the -weekly dance at the Hotel d’Europe, and—”</p> - -<p>“I think French people are always dancing,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a -little sigh, “or rattling on in that way, laughing and jesting as if -life were all a play. I am sure I don’t know how they keep it up, always -going on like that. But Rosalind does not care for those sort of dances. -Had there been one in our own hotel among people we know— But I must say -madame is rather remiss: she does not exert herself to provide -amusement. If I came here another year, as I suppose I must, now that I -have begun to have a koor—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, they will keep you to it. This is the second year I have been -made to come. I hope you will be here, Mrs. Lennox, for then I shall be -sure to see you, and—” Here he paused a little and added “the -children,” in a lower voice.</p> - -<p>“It is so nice of you, a young man, to think of the children,” said Aunt -Sophy, gratefully; “but they say it does make you like people when you -have done them a great service. As to meeting us, I hope we shall meet -sooner than that. When you come to England you must—” Here Mrs. Lennox -paused, feeling John’s malign influence by her side, and conscious of a -certain kick of his foot and the suppressed snort with which he puffed -out the smoke of his cigar. She paused; but then she reflected that, -after all, the Elms was her own, and she was not in the habit of -consulting John as to whom she should ask there. And then she went on, -with a voice that trembled slightly, “Come down to Clifton and see me; I -shall be so happy to see you, and I think I know some of your Essex -relations,” Mrs. Lennox said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span></p> - -<p>John Trevanion, who had been leaning back with the legs of his chair -tilted in the air, came down upon them with a dint in the gravel, and -thus approached himself nearer to the table in his mingled indignation -at his sister’s foolishness, and eagerness to hear what the young fellow -would find to say. This, no doubt, disturbed the even flow of the -response, making young Everard start.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I have any relations in Essex,” he said. “You are very -kind. But I have not been in England for some years, and I don’t think I -am very likely to go.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” said Mrs. Lennox, “I am very sorry. I hope you have not got -any prejudice against home. Perhaps there is more amusement to be found -abroad, Mr. Everard, and no doubt that tells with young men like you; -but I am sure you will find after a while what the song says, that there -is no place like home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I have no prejudice,” he said hurriedly. “There are -reasons—family reasons.” Then he added, with what seemed to John, -watching him eagerly, a little bravado, “The only relative I have is -rather what you would call eccentric. She has her own ways of thinking. -She has been ill-used in England, or at least she thinks so, and nothing -will persuade her— Ladies, you know, sometimes take strange views of -things.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I cannot allow you to say anything against -ladies. For my part I think it is men that take strange views. But, my -dear Mr. Everard, because your relative has a prejudice (which is so -very unnatural in a woman), that is not to say that a young man like you -is to be kept from home. Oh, no, you may be sure she doesn’t mean that.”</p> - -<p>“It does seem absurd, doesn’t it?” the young man said.</p> - -<p>“And I would not,” said Aunt Sophy, strong in the sense of superiority -over a woman who could show herself so capricious, “I would not, though -it is very nice of you, and everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> must like you the better for -trying to please her, I would not yield altogether in a matter like -this. For, you know, if you are thinking of public life, or of any way -of distinguishing yourself, you can only do that at home. Besides, I -think it is everybody’s duty to think of their own country first. A tour -like this we are all making is all very well, for six months or even -more. <i>We</i> shall have been nine months away in a day or two, but then I -am having my drains thoroughly looked to, and it was necessary. Six -months is quite enough, and I would not stay abroad for a permanency, -oh! not for anything. Being abroad is very nice, but home—you know what -the song says, there is—Rosalind! Good heavens, what is the matter? It -can’t be Johnny again?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind seemed to rush upon them in a moment, as if she had lighted -down from the skies. Even in the flickering artificial light they could -see that she was as white as her dress and her face drawn and haggard. -She came and stood by the table with her back to all the fluttering -crowd beyond and the light streaming full upon her. “Uncle John,” she -said, “mamma is dead, I have seen her; Amy and I have seen her. You -drove her away, but she has come back to the children. I knew— I -knew—that sometime she would come back.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind!” Mrs. Lennox rose, forgetting her rheumatism, and John -Trevanion rushed to the girl and took her into his arms. “My darling, -what is it? You are ill—you have been frightened.”</p> - -<p>She leaned against his arm, supporting herself so, and lifted her pale -face to his. “Mamma is dead, for I have seen her,” Rosalind said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX" id="CHAPTER_XLIX"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Rosalind came to herself she had found little Amy in her white -nightgown standing by her, clinging round her, her pretty hair, all -tumbled and in disorder, hanging about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> cheeks which were pressed -against her sister’s, wet with tears. For a moment they said nothing to -each other. Rosalind raised herself from her entire prostration and sat -on the carpet holding Amy in her arms. They clung to each other, two -hearts beating, two young souls full of anguish, yet exaltation; they -were raised above all that was round them, above the common strain of -speech and thought. The first words that Rosalind said were very low.</p> - -<p>“Amy, did you see her?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes, Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>“Did you know her?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Have you seen her before?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, every night!”</p> - -<p>“Amy, and you never said it was mamma!”</p> - -<p>They trembled both as if a blast of wind had passed over them, and -clasped each other closer. Was it Rosalind that had become a child again -and Amy that was the woman? She whispered, with her lips on her sister’s -cheek,</p> - -<p>“How was I to tell? She came to me—to me and Johnny. We belong to her, -Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“And not I!” the girl exclaimed, with a great cry. Then she recovered -herself, that thought being too keen to pass without effect.</p> - -<p>“Amy! you are hers without her choice, but she took me of her own will -to be her child; I belong to her almost more than you. Oh, not more, not -more, Amy! but you were so little you did not know her like me.”</p> - -<p>Little Amy recognized at last that in force of feeling she was not her -sister’s equal, and for a time they were both silent. Then the child -asked, looking round her with a wild and frightened glance, “Rosalind, -must mamma be dead?”</p> - -<p>This question roused them both to a terror and panic such as in the -first emotion and wonder they had not been conscious of. Instead of love -came fear; they had been raised above<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> that tremor of the flesh, but now -it came upon them in a horror not to be put aside. Even Rosalind, who -was old enough to take herself to task, felt with a painful thrill that -she had stood by something that was not flesh and blood, and in the -intensity of the shuddering terror forgot her nobler yearning sympathy -and love. They crept together to the night-lamp and lit the candles from -it, and closed all the doors, shrinking from the dark curtains and -shadows in the corners as if spectres might be lurking there. They had -lit up the room thus when nurse returned from her evening’s relaxation -down-stairs, cheerful but tired, and ready to go to bed. She stood -holding up her head and gazing at them with eyes of amazement. “Lord, -Miss Rosalind, what’s the matter? You’ll wake the children up,” she -cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is nothing, nurse. Amy was awake,” said Rosalind, trembling. “We -thought the light would be more cheering.” Her voice shook so that she -could with difficulty articulate the words.</p> - -<p>“And did you think, Miss Rosalind, that the child could ever go to sleep -with all that light; and telling her stories, and putting things in her -head? I don’t hold with exciting them when it is their bedtime. It may -not matter so much for a lady that comes in just now and then, but for -the nurse as is always with them— And children are tiresome at the best -of times. No one knows how tiresome they are but those that have to do -for them day and night.”</p> - -<p>“We did not mean to vex you. We were very sad, Amy and I; we were -unhappy, thinking of our mother,” said Rosalind, trying to say the words -firmly, “whom we have lost.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind, do you think so too?” cried Amy, flinging herself into -her sister’s arms.</p> - -<p>Rosalind took her up trembling and carried her to bed. The tears had -begun to come, and the terrible iron hand that had seemed to press upon -her heart relaxed a little. She kissed the child with quivering lips. “I -think it must be so,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> “We will say our prayers, and ask God, -if there is anything she wants us to do, to show us what it is.” -Rosalind’s lips quivered so that she had to stop to subdue herself, to -make her voice audible. “Now she is dead, she can come back to us. We -ought to be glad. Why should we be frightened for poor mamma? She could -not come back to us living, but now, when she is dead—”</p> - -<p>“Miss Rosalind,” said the nurse, “I don’t know what you are saying, but -you will put the child off her sleep and she won’t close an eye all the -night.”</p> - -<p>“Amy, that would grieve mamma,” said the girl. “We must not do anything -to vex her now that she has come back.”</p> - -<p>And so strong is nature and so weak is childhood, that Amy, wearied and -soothed and comforted, with Rosalind’s voice in her ears and the -cheerful light within sight, did drop to sleep, sobbing, before half an -hour was out. Then Rosalind bathed the tears from her eyes, and, -hurrying through the long passages with that impulse to tell her tale to -some one which to the simple soul is a condition of life, appeared -suddenly in her exaltation and sorrow amid all the noisy groups in the -hotel garden. Her head was light with tears and suffering, she scarcely -felt the ground she trod upon, or realized what was about her. Her only -distinct feeling was that which she uttered with such conviction, -leaning her entire weight on Uncle John’s kind arm and lifting her -colorless face to his—“Mamma is dead; and she has come back to the -children.” How natural it seemed! the only thing to be expected; but -Mrs. Lennox gave a loud cry and fell back in her chair, in what she -supposed to be a faint, good woman, having happily little experience. It -was now that young Everard justified her good opinion of him. He soothed -her back out of this half-faint, and, supporting her on his arm, led her -up-stairs. “I will see to her; you will be better alone,” he said, as he -passed the other group. Even John Trevanion, when he had time to think -of it, felt that it was kind, and Aunt Sophy never forgot the touching -attention he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span> showed to her, calling her maid, and bringing her -eau-de-cologne after he had placed her on the sofa. “He might have been -my son,” Mrs. Lennox said; “no nephew was ever so kind.” But when he -came out of the room, and stood outside in the lighted corridor, there -was nothing tender in the young man’s face. It was pale with passion and -a cruel force. He paused for a moment to collect himself, and then, -turning along a long passage and up another staircase, made his way, -with the determined air of a man who has a desperate undertaking in -hand, to an apartment with which he was evidently well acquainted, on -the other side of the house.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_L" id="CHAPTER_L"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Hotel Venat that night closed its doors upon many anxious and -troubled souls. A certain agitation seemed to have crept through the -house itself. The landlady was disturbed in her bureau, moving about -restlessly, giving short answers to the many inquirers who came to know -what was the matter. “What is there, do you ask?” she said, stretching -out her plump hands, “there is nothing! there is that mademoiselle, the -young <i>Anglaise</i>, has an <i>attaque des nerfs</i>. Nothing could be more -simple. The reason I know not. Is it necessary to inquire? An affair of -the heart! <i>Les Anglaises</i> have two or three in a year. Mademoiselle has -had a disappointment. The uncle has come to interfere, and she has a -seizure. I do not blame her; it is the weapon of a young girl. What has -she else, <i>pauvre petite</i>, to avenge herself?”</p> - -<p>“But, madame, they say that something has been seen—a ghost, a—”</p> - -<p>“There are no ghosts in my house,” the indignant landlady said; and her -tone was so imperious and her brow so lowering that the timid -questioners scattered in all directions. The English visitors were not -quite sure what an <i>attaque des nerfs</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span> was. It was not a “nervous -attack;” it was something not to be defined by English terms. English -ladies do not have hysterics nowadays; they have neuralgia, which -answers something of the same purpose, but then neuralgia has no sort of -connection with ghosts.</p> - -<p>In Mrs. Lennox’s sitting-room up-stairs, which was so well lighted, so -fully occupied, with large windows opening upon the garden, and white -curtains fluttering at the open windows, a very agitated group was -assembled. Mrs. Lennox was seated at a distance from the table, with her -white handkerchief in her hand, with which now and then she wiped off a -few tears. Sometimes she would throw a word into the conversation that -was going on, but for the most part confined herself to passive -remonstrances and appeals, lifting up now her hands, now her eyes, to -heaven. It was half because she was so overcome by her feelings that -Mrs. Lennox took so little share in what was going on, and half because -her brother had taken the management of this crisis off her hands. She -did not think that he showed much mastery of the situation, but she -yielded it to him with a great and consolatory consciousness that, -whatever should now happen, <i>she</i> could not be held as the person to -blame.</p> - -<p>Rosalind’s story was that which the reader already knows, with the -addition of another extracted from little Amy, who had one of those -wonderful tales of childish endurance and silence which seem scarcely -credible, yet occur so often, to tell. For many nights past, Amy, -clinging to her sister, with her face hidden on Rosalind’s shoulder, -declared that she had seen the same figure steal in. She had never -clearly seen the face, but the child had been certain from the first -that it was mamma. Mamma had gone to Johnny first, and then had come to -her own little bed, where she stood for a moment before she disappeared. -Johnny’s outcry had been always, Amy said, after the figure disappeared, -but she had seen it emerge from out of the dimness, and glide away, and -by degrees this mystery had become<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> the chief incident in her life. All -this Rosalind repeated with tremulous eloquence; and excitement, as she -stood before the two elder people, on her defence.</p> - -<p>“But I saw her, Uncle John; what argument can be so strong as that? You -have been moving about, you have not got your letters; and -perhaps—perhaps—” cried Rosalind with tears—“perhaps it has happened -only now, only to-night. A woman who was far from her children might -come and see them—and see them,” she struggled to say through her sobs, -“on her way to heaven.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Rosalind! it is a fortnight since it begun,” Mrs. Lennox said.</p> - -<p>“Do people die in a moment?” cried Rosalind. “She may have been dying -all this time; and perhaps when they thought her wandering in her mind -it might be that she was here. Oh, my mother; who would watch over her, -who would be taking care of her? and me so far away!”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion sprang from his chair. It was intolerable to sit there -and listen and feel the contagion of this excitement, which was so -irrational, so foolish, gain his own being. Women take a pleasure in -their own anguish, which a man cannot bear. “Rosalind,” he cried, “this -is too terrible, you know. I cannot stand it if you can; I tell you, if -anything had happened, I must have heard. All this is simply impossible. -You have all got out of order, the children first, and their fancies -have acted upon you.”</p> - -<p>“It is their digestion, I always said so—or gout in the system,” said -Aunt Sophy, lifting her handkerchief to her eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is derangement of the brain, I think,” said John. “I see I must get -you out of here; one of you has infected the other. Come, Rosalind, you -have so much sense—let us see you make use of it.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, what has sense to do with it? I have seen her,” Rosalind -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span></p> - -<p>“This is madness, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“What is madness? Are my eyes mad that saw mamma? I was not thinking of -seeing her. In a moment I lifted up my eyes, and she was there. Is it -madness that she should die? Oh no, more wonderful how she can live; or -madness to think that her heart would fly to us—oh, like an arrow, the -moment it was free?”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind,” said Mrs. Lennox, “poor Grace was a very religious woman; at -that moment she would be thinking about her Maker.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think she would be afraid of him?” cried Rosalind, “afraid that -our Lord would be jealous, that he would not like her to love her -children? Oh, that’s not what my mother thought! My religion is what I -got from her. She was not afraid of him—she loved him. She would know -that he would let her come, perhaps bring her and stand by her; -perhaps,” the girl cried, clasping her hands, “if I had been better, -more religious, more like my mother, I should have seen him in the room -too.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion seized her hands almost fiercely. Short of giving up his -own self-control, and yielding to this stormy tide of emotion, it was -the only thing he could do. “I must have an end of this,” he said. -“Rosalind, you must be calm—we shall all go distracted if you continue -so. She was a good woman, as Sophy says. She never could, I don’t -believe it, have gratified herself at your expense like this. I shall -telegraph the first thing in the morning to the lawyers, to know if they -have any news. Will that satisfy you? Suspend your judgment till I hear; -if then it turns out that there is any cause—” Here his voice broke and -yielded to the strain of emotion; upon which Rosalind, whose face had -been turned away, rose up suddenly and flung herself upon him as Amy had -done upon her, crying, “Oh, my mother! oh, my mother! you loved her too, -Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>Thus the passion of excited feeling extended itself. For a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> moment John -Trevanion sobbed too, and the girl felt, with a sensation of awe which -calmed her, the swelling of the man’s breast. He put her down in her -chair next moment with a tremulous smile. “No more, Rosalind—we must -not all lose our senses. I promise you if there is any truth in your -imagination you shall not want my sympathy. But I am sure you are -exciting yourself unnecessarily; I know I should have heard had there -been anything wrong. My dear, no more now.”</p> - -<p>Next morning John Trevanion was early astir. He had slept little, and -his mind was full of cares. In the light of the morning he felt a little -ashamed of the agitation of last night, and of the credulity to which he -himself had been drawn by Rosalind’s excitement. He said to himself that -no doubt it was in the imagination of little Amy that the whole myth had -arisen. The child had been sleepless, as children often are, and no -doubt she had formed to herself that spectre out of the darkness which -sympathy and excitement and solitude had embodied to Rosalind also. -Nothing is more contagious than imagination. He had himself been all but -overpowered by Rosalind’s impassioned certainty. He had felt his own -firmness waver; how much more was an emotional girl likely to waver, who -did not take into account the tangle of mental workings even in a child? -As he came out into the cool morning air it all seemed clear enough and -easy; but the consequences were not easy, nor how he was to break the -spell, and recall the visionary child and the too sympathetic girl to -practical realities, and dissipate these fancies out of their heads. He -was not very confident in his own powers; he thought they were quite as -likely to overcome him as he to restore them to composure. But still -something must be done, and the scene changed at least. As he came along -the corridor from his room, with a sense of being the only person waking -in this part of the house, though the servants had long been stirring -below, his ear was caught by a faint, quick sound, and a whispering call -from the apartment occupied by his sister. He looked round quickly, -fearful, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span> one is in a time of agitation, of every new sound, and saw -another actor in the little drama, one whose name had not yet been so -much as mentioned as taking any part in it—the sharp, inquisitive, -matter-of-fact little Sophy, who was the one of the children he liked -least. Sophy made energetic gestures to stop him, and with elaborate -precaution came out of her room attired in a little dressing-gown of -blue flannel, with bare feet in slippers, and her hair hanging over her -shoulders. He stood still in the passage with great impatience while she -elaborately closed the door behind her, and came towards him on her -toes, with an evident enjoyment of the mystery. “Oh, Uncle John! hush, -don’t make any noise,” Sophy said.</p> - -<p>“Is that all you want to tell me?” he asked severely.</p> - -<p>“No, Uncle John; but we must not wake these poor things, they are all -asleep. I want to tell you—do you think we are safe here and nobody can -hear us? Please go back to your room. If any one were to come and see -me, in bare feet and my dressing-gown—”</p> - -<p>He laughed somewhat grimly, indeed with a feeling that he would like to -whip this important little person; but Sophy detected no under-current -of meaning. She cried “Hush!” again, with the most imperative energy, -under her breath, and swinging by his arm drew him back to his room, -which threw a ray of morning sunshine down the passage from its open -door. The man was a little abashed by the entrance of this feminine -creature, though she was but thirteen, especially as she gave a quick -glance round of curiosity and sharp inspection. “What an awfully big -sponge, and what a lot of boots you have!” she said quickly. “Uncle -John! they say one ought never to watch or listen or anything of that -sort; but when everybody was in such a state last night, how do you -think I could just stay still in bed? I saw that lady come out of the -children’s room, Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>The child, though her eyes were dancing with excitement and the delight -of meddling, and the importance of what she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> had to say, began at this -point to change color, to grow red and then pale.</p> - -<p>“You! I did not think you were the sort of person, Sophy—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, wait a little, Uncle John! To see ghosts you were going to say. But -that is just the mistake. I knew all the time it was a real lady. I -don’t know how I knew. I just found out, out of my own head.”</p> - -<p>“A real lady! I don’t know, Sophy, what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you do, it is quite simple. It is no ghost, it is a real lady, -as real as any one. I stood at the door and saw her come out. She went -quite close past me, and I felt her things, and they were as real as -mine. She makes no noise because she is so light and thin. Besides, -there are no ghosts,” said Sophy. “If she had been a ghost she would -have known I was there, and she never did, never found me out though I -felt her things. She had a great deal of black lace on,” the girl added, -not without meaning, though it was a meaning altogether lost upon John -Trevanion. Though she was so cool and practical, her nerves were all in -commotion. She could not keep still; her eyes, her feet, her fingers, -all were quivering. She made a dart aside to his dressing-table. “What -big, big brushes—and no handles to them! Why is everything a gentleman -has so big? though you have so little hair. Her shoes were of that soft -kind without any heels to them, and she made no noise. Uncle John!”</p> - -<p>“This is a very strange addition to the story, Sophy. I am obliged to -you for telling me. It was no imagination, then, but somebody, who for -some strange motive— I am very glad you had so much sense, not to be -deceived.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John!” Sophy said. She did not take any notice of this applause, -as in other circumstances she would have done; everything about her -twitched and trembled, her eyes seemed to grow large like Amy’s. She -could not stand still. “Uncle John!”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Sophy? You have something more to say.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span></p> - -<p>The child’s eyes filled with tears. So sharp they were, and keen, that -this liquid medium seemed inappropriate to their eager curiosity and -brightness. She grew quite pale, her lips quivered a little. “Uncle -John!” she said again, with an hysterical heave of her bosom, “I think -it is mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy!” He cried out with such a wildness of exclamation that she -started with fright, and those hot tears dropped out of her eyes. -Something in her throat choked her. She repeated, in a stifled, broken -voice, “I am sure it is mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy! you must have some reason for saying this. What is it? Don’t -tell me half, but everything. What makes you think—?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think at all,” cried the child. “Why should I think? I saw -her. I would not tell the others or say anything, because it would harm -us all, wouldn’t it, Uncle John? but I know it is mamma.”</p> - -<p>He seized her by the shoulder in hot anger and excitement. “You -little—! Could you think of that when you saw your mother—if it is -your mother? but that’s impossible. And you can’t be such a little—such -a demon as you make yourself out.”</p> - -<p>“You never said that to any one else,” cried Sophy, bursting into tears; -“it was Rex that told me. He said we should lose all our money if mamma -came back. We can’t live without our money, can we, Uncle John? Other -people may take care of us, and—all that. But if we had no money what -would become of us? Rex told me. He said that was why mamma went away.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion gazed at the little girl in her precocious wisdom with a -wonder for which he could find no words. Rex, too, that fresh and manly -boy, so admirable an example of English youth; to think of these two -young creatures talking it over, coming to their decision! He forgot -even the strange light, if it were a light, which she had thrown upon -the events of the previous evening, in admiration and wonder at this,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span> -which was more wonderful. At length he said, with perhaps a tone of -satire too fine for Sophy, “As you are the only person who possesses -this information, Sophy, what do you propose to do?”</p> - -<p>“Do?” she said, looking at him with startled eyes; “I am not going to do -anything, Uncle John. I thought I would tell you—”</p> - -<p>“And put the responsibility on my shoulders? Yes, I understand that. But -you cannot forget what you have seen. If your mother, as you think, is -in the house, what shall you do?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John,” said Sophy, pale with alarm. “I have not really, -really seen her, if that is what you mean. She only just passed where I -was standing. No one could punish me just for having seen her pass.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are a great philosopher, my dear,” he said.</p> - -<p>At this, Sophy looked very keenly at him, and deriving no satisfaction -from the expression of his face, again began to cry. “You are making fun -of me, Uncle John,” she said. “You would not laugh like that if it had -been Rosalind. You always laugh at us children whatever we may say.”</p> - -<p>“I have no wish to laugh, Sophy, I assure you. If your aunt or some one -wakes and finds you gone from your bed, how shall you explain it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I shall tell her that I was— I know what I shall tell her,” Sophy -said, recovering herself; “I am not such a silly as that.”</p> - -<p>“You are not silly at all, my dear. I wish you were not half so clever,” -said John. He turned away with a sick heart. Sophy and those -unconscious, terrible revelations of hers were more than the man could -bear. The air was fresh outside, the day was young; he seemed to have -come out of an oppressive atmosphere of age and sophistication, -calculating prudence and artificial life, when he left the child behind -him. He was so much overwhelmed by Sophy that for the moment, he did -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> fully realize the importance of what she had told him, and it was -not till he had walked some distance, and reconciled himself to nature -in the still brightness of the morning, that he awoke with a sudden -sensation which thrilled through and through him to the meaning of what -the little girl had said. Her mother—was it possible? no ghost, but a -living woman. This was indeed a solution of the problem which he had -never thought of. At first, after Madam’s sudden departure from -Highcourt, John Trevanion went nowhere without a sort of vague -expectation of meeting her suddenly, in some quite inappropriate -place—on a railway, in a hotel. But now, after years had passed, he had -no longer that expectation. The world is so small, as it is the common -vulgarity of the moment to say, but nevertheless the world is large -enough to permit people who have lost each other in life to drift apart, -never to meet, to wander about almost within sight of each other, yet -never cross each other’s paths. He had not thought of that—he could -scarcely give any faith to it now. It seemed too natural, too probable -to have happened. And yet it was not either natural or probable that -Mrs. Trevanion, such as he had known her, a woman so self-restrained, so -long experienced in the act of subduing her own impulses, should risk -the health of her children and shatter their nerves by secret visits -that looked like those of a supernatural being. It was impossible to him -to think this of her. She who had not hesitated to sacrifice herself -entirely to their interests once, would she be so forgetful now? And -yet, a mother hungering for the sight of her children’s faces, severed -from them, without hope, was she to be judged by ordinary rules? Was -there any expedient which she might not be pardoned for taking—any -effort which she might not make to see them once more?</p> - -<p>The immediate question, however, was what to do. He could not insist -upon carrying the party away, which was his first idea; for various -visitors were already on their way to join them, and it would be cruel -to interrupt the “koor” which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> Mrs. Lennox regarded with so much hope. -The anxious guardian did as so many anxious guardians have done -before—he took refuge in a compromise. Before he returned to the hotel -he had hired one of the many villas in the neighborhood, the white board -with the inscription <i>à louer</i> coming to him like a sudden inspiration. -Whether the appearance which had disturbed them was of this world or of -another, the change must be beneficial.</p> - -<p>The house stood upon a wooded height, which descended with its fringe of -trees to the very edge of the water, and commanded the whole beautiful -landscape, the expanse of the lake answering to every change of the sky, -the homely towers of Hautecombe opposite, the mountains on either side, -reflected in the profound blue mirror underneath. Within this enclosure -no one could make a mysterious entry; no one, at least, clothed in -ordinary flesh and blood. To his bewildered mind it was the most -grateful relief to escape thus from the dilemma before him; and in any -case he must gain time for examination and thought.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LI" id="CHAPTER_LI"></a>CHAPTER LI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Lennox</span> was struck dumb with amazement when she heard what her -brother’s morning’s occupation had been. “Taken a house!” she cried, -with a scream which summoned the whole party round her. But presently -she consoled herself, and found it the best step which possibly could -have been taken. It was a pretty place; and she could there complete her -“koor” without let or hinderance. The other members of the party adapted -themselves to it with the ease of youth; but there were many protests on -the part of the people in the hotel; and to young Everard the news at -first seemed fatal. He could not understand how it was that he met none -of the party during the afternoon. In ordinary circumstances he crossed -their path two or three times at least, and by a little strategy could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> -make sure of being in Rosalind’s company for a considerable part of -every day, having, indeed, come to consider himself, and being generally -considered, as one of Mrs. Lennox’s habitual train. He thought at first -that they had gone away altogether, and his despair was boundless. But -very soon the shock was softened, and better things began to appear -possible. Next day he met Mrs. Lennox going to her bath, and not only -did she stop to explain everything to him, and tell him all about the -new house, which was so much nicer than the hotel, but, led away by her -own flood of utterance, and without thinking what John would say, she -invited him at once to dinner.</p> - -<p>“Dinner is rather a weak point,” she said, “but there is something to -eat always, if you don’t mind taking your chance.”</p> - -<p>“I would not mind, however little there might be,” he said, beaming. “I -thought you had gone away, and I was in despair.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” Mrs. Lennox said. But then she began to think what John would -say.</p> - -<p>John did not say very much when, in the early dusk, Everard, in all the -glories of evening dress, made his appearance in the drawing-room at -Bonport, which was furnished with very little except the view. But then -the view was enough to cover many deficiencies. The room was rounded, -almost the half of the wall being window, which was filled at all times, -when there was light enough to see it, with one of those prospects of -land and water which never lose their interest, and which take as many -variations, as the sun rises and sets upon them, and the clouds and -shadows flit over them, and the light pours out of the skies, as does an -expressive human face. The formation of the room aided the effect by -making this wonderful scene the necessary background of everything that -occurred within; in that soft twilight the figures were as shadows -against the brightness which still lingered upon the lake. John -Trevanion stood against it, black in his height and massive outline, -taking the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span> privilege of his manhood and darkening for the others the -remnant of daylight that remained. Mrs. Lennox’s chair had been placed -in a corner, as she liked it to be, out of what she called the draught, -and all that appeared of her was one side of a soft heap, a small -mountain, of drapery; while on the other hand, Rosalind, slim and -straight, a soft whiteness, appeared against the trellis of the veranda. -The picture was all in shadows, uncertain, visionary, save for the -outline of John Trevanion, which was very solid and uncompromising, and -produced a great effect amid the gentle vagueness of all around. The -young man faltered on the threshold at sight of him, feeling none of the -happy, sympathetic security which he had felt in the company of the -ladies and the children. Young Everard was in reality too ignorant of -society and its ways to have thought of the inevitable interviews with -guardians and investigations into antecedents which would necessarily -attend any possible engagement with a girl in Rosalind’s position. But -there came a cold shiver over him when he saw the man’s figure opposite -to him as he entered, and a prevision of an examination very different -from anything he had calculated upon came into his mind. For a moment -the impulse of flight seized him; but that was impossible, and however -terrible the ordeal might be it was evident that he must face it. It was -well for him, however, that it was so dark that the changes of his color -and hesitation of his manner were not so visible as they would otherwise -have been. Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that he was shy—perhaps even more -shy than usual from the fact that John was not so friendly as, in view -of what Mr. Everard had done for the children, he ought to have been. -And she did her best accordingly to encourage the visitor. The little -interval before dinner, in the twilight, when they could not see each -other, was naturally awkward, and, except by herself, little was said; -but she had a generally well-justified faith in the effect of dinner as -a softening and mollifying influence. When, however, the party were -seated in the dining-room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span> round the shaded lamp, which threw a -brilliant light on the table, and left the faces round it in a sort of -pink shadow, matters were little better than before. The undesired -guest, who had not self-confidence enough to appear at his ease, -attempted, after a while, to entertain Mrs. Lennox with scraps of gossip -from the hotel, though always in a deprecating tone and with an -apologetic humility; but this conversation went on strangely in the -midst of an atmosphere hushed by many agitations, where the others were -kept silent by thoughts and anxieties too great for words. John -Trevanion, who could scarcely contain himself or restrain his -inclination to take this young intruder by the throat and compel him to -explain who he was, and what he did here, and Rosalind, who had looked -with incredulous apathy at the telegram her uncle had received from Mrs. -Trevanion’s lawyers, informing him that nothing had happened to her, so -far as they were aware, sat mute, both of them, listening to the mild -chatter without taking any part in it. Mrs. Lennox wagged, if not her -head, at least the laces of her cap, as she discussed the company at -the <i>table d’hôte</i>. “And these people were Russians, after all?” she -said. “Why, I thought them English, and you remember Rosalind and you, -Mr. Everard, declared they must be German; and all the time they were -Russians. How very odd! And it was the little man who was the lady’s -husband! Well, I never should have guessed that. Yes, I knew our going -away would make a great gap—so many of us, you know. But we have got -some friends coming. Do you mean to take rooms at the Venat for Mr. -Rivers, John? And then there is Roland Hamerton—”</p> - -<p>“Is Roland Hamerton coming here?”</p> - -<p>“With Rex, I think. Oh, yes, he is sure to come—he is great friends -with Rex. I am so glad the boy should have such a steady, nice friend. -But we cannot take him in at Bonport, and of course he never would -expect such a thing. Perhaps you will mention at the bureau, Mr. -Everard, that some friends of mine will be wanting rooms.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span></p> - -<p>“I had no idea,” said John, with a tone of annoyance, “that so large a -party was expected.”</p> - -<p>“Rex?” said Mrs. Lennox, with simple audacity. “Well, I hope you don’t -think I could refuse our own boy when he wanted to come.”</p> - -<p>“He ought to have been at school,” the guardian grumbled under his -breath.</p> - -<p>“John! when you agreed yourself he was doing no good at school; and the -masters said so, and everybody. And he is too young to go to Oxford; and -whatever you may think, John, I am very glad to know that a nice, good, -steady young man like Roland Hamerton has taken such a fancy to Rex. Oh, -yes, he has taken a great fancy to him—he is staying with him now. It -shows that though the poor boy may be a little wilful, he is thoroughly -nice in his heart. Though even without that,” said Mrs. Lennox, ready to -weep, “I should always be glad to see Roland Hamerton, shouldn’t you, -Rosalind? He is always good and kind, and we have known him, and -Rosalind has known him, all his life.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind made no reply to this appeal. She was in no mood to say -anything, to take any part in common conversation. Her time of peace and -repose was over. If there had been nothing else, the sudden information -only now conveyed to her of the coming of Rivers and of Hamerton, with -what motive she knew too well, would have been enough to stop her mouth. -She heard this with a thrill of excitement, of exasperation, and at the -same time of alarm, which is far from the state of mind supposed by the -visionary philosopher to whom it seems meet that a good girl should have -seven suitors. Above all, the name of Rivers filled her with alarm. He -was a man who was a stranger, who would insist upon an answer, and -probably think himself ill-used if that answer was not favorable. With -so many subjects of thought already weighing upon her, to have this -added made her brain swim. And when she looked up and caught, from the -other side of the table, a wistful gaze<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> from those eyes which had so -long haunted her imagination, Rosalind’s dismay was complete. She shrank -into herself with a troubled consciousness that all the problems of life -were crowding upon her, and at a moment when she had little heart to -consider any personal question at all, much less such a one as this.</p> - -<p>The party round the dinner-table was thus a very agitated one, and by -degrees less and less was said. The movements of the servants—Mrs. -Lennox’s agile courier and John Trevanion’s solemn English attendant, -whose face was like wood—became very audible, the chief action of the -scene. To Everard the silence, broken only by these sounds and by Mrs. -Lennox’s voice coming in at intervals, was as the silence of fate. He -made exertions which were really stupendous to find something to say, to -seize the occasion and somehow divert the catastrophe which, though he -did not know what it would be, he felt to be hanging over his head; but -his throat was dry and his lips parched, notwithstanding the wine which -he swallowed in his agitation, and not a word would come. When the -ladies rose to leave the table, he felt that the catastrophe was very -near. He was paralyzed by their sudden movement, which he had not -calculated upon, and had not even presence of mind to open the door for -them as he ought to have done, but stood gazing with his mouth open and -his napkin in his hand, to find himself alone and face to face with John -Trevanion. He had not thought of this terrible ordeal. In the hotel life -to which he had of late been accustomed, the awful interval after dinner -is necessarily omitted, and Everard had not been brought up in a society -which sits over its wine. When he saw John Trevanion bearing down upon -him with his glass of wine in his hand, to take Mrs. Lennox’s place, he -felt that he did not know to what trial this might be preliminary, and -turned towards his host with a sense of danger and terror which nothing -in the circumstances seemed to justify, restraining with an effort the -gasp in his throat. John began, innocently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> enough, by some remark about -the wine. It was very tolerable wine, better than might have been -expected in a country overrun by visitors. “But I suppose the strangers -will be going very soon, as I hear the season is nearly over. Have you -been long here?”</p> - -<p>“A month—six weeks I mean—since early in August.”</p> - -<p>“And did you come for the ‘cure’? You must have taken a double -allowance.”</p> - -<p>“It was not exactly for the cure; at least I have stayed on—for other -reasons.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,” said John Trevanion. “It was you, was -it not, whom I met in the village at Highcourt two years ago?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was I.”</p> - -<p>“That was a very unlikely place to meet; more unlikely than Aix. I must -ask your pardon again, Mr. Everard; you will allow that when I find you -here, almost a member of my sister’s family, I have a right to inquire. -Do you know that there were very unpleasant visitors at Highcourt in -search of you after you were gone?”</p> - -<p>The young man looked at him with eyes expanding and dilating—where had -he seen such eyes?—a deep crimson flush, and a look of such terror and -anguish that John Trevanion’s good heart was touched. He had anticipated -a possible bravado of denial, which would have given him no difficulty, -but this was much less easy to deal with.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Trevanion,” Everard said, with lips so parched that he to moisten -them before he could speak, “that was a mistake, it was indeed! That was -all arranged; you would not put me to shame for a thing so long past, -and that was entirely a mistake! It was put right in every way, every -farthing was paid. A great change happened to me at that time of my -life. I had been kept out of what I had a right to, and badly treated. -But after that a change occurred. I can assure you, and the people -themselves would tell you. I can give their address.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span></p> - -<p>“I should not have spoken to you on the subject if I had not been -disposed to accept any explanation you could make,” said John Trevanion; -which was but partially true so far as his intention went, although it -was impossible to doubt an explanation which was so evidently sincere. -After this there ensued a silence, during which Everard, the excitement -in his mind growing higher and higher, turned over every subject on -which he thought it possible that he could be questioned further. He -thought, as he sat there drawn together on his defence, eagerly yet -stealthily examining the countenance of this inquisitor, that he had -thought of everything and could not be taken by surprise. Nevertheless -his heart gave a great bound of astonishment when John Trevanion spoke -again. The question he put was perhaps the only one for which the victim -was unprepared. “Would you mind telling me,” he said, with great gravity -and deliberation, “what connection there was between you and my brother, -the late Mr. Trevanion of Highcourt?”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LII" id="CHAPTER_LII"></a>CHAPTER LII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> moon was shining in full glory upon the lake, so brilliant and broad -that the great glittering expanse of water retained something like a -tinge of its natural blue in the wonderful splendor of the light. It was -not a night on which to keep in-doors. Mrs. Lennox, in the drawing-room, -after she had left her <i>protégé</i> to the tender mercies of John, had been -a little hysterical, or, at least, as she allowed, very much “upset.” “I -don’t know what has come over John,” she said; “I think his heart is -turned to stone. Oh, Rosalind, how could you keep so still? You that -have such a feeling for the children, and saw the way that poor young -fellow was being bullied. It is a thing I will not put up with in my -house—if it can be said that this is my house. Yes, bullied. John has -never said a word to him! And I am sure he is going to make himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span> -disagreeable now, and when there is nobody to protect him—and he is so -good and quiet and takes it all so well,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a great -confusion of persons, “for our sakes.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind did her best to soothe and calm her aunt’s excitement, and at -last succeeded in persuading her that she was very tired, and had much -better go to bed. “Oh, yes, I am very tired. What with my bath, and the -trouble of removing down here, and having to think of the dinners, and -all this trouble about Johnny and Amy, and your uncle that shows so -little feeling—of course, I am very tired. Most people would have been -in bed an hour ago. If you think you can remember my message to poor Mr. -Everard: to tell him never to mind John; that it is just his way and -nobody takes any notice of it; and say good-night to him for me. But you -know you have a very bad memory, Rosalind, and you will never tell him -the half of that.”</p> - -<p>“If I see him, Aunt Sophy; but he may not come in here at all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you may trust him to come in,” Aunt Sophy said; and with a renewed -charge not to forget, she finally rang for her maid, and went away, with -all her little properties, to bed. Rosalind did not await the interview -which Mrs. Lennox was so certain of. She stole out of the window, which -stood wide open like a door, into the moonlight. Everything was so still -that the movements of the leaves, as they rustled faintly, took -importance in the great quiet; and the dip of an oar into the water, -which took place at slow intervals, somewhere about the middle of the -lake, where some romantic visitors were out in the moonlight, was almost -a violent interruption. Rosalind stepped out into the soft night with a -sense of escape, not thinking much perhaps of the messages with which -she had been charged. The air was full of that faint but all-pervading -fragrance made up of odors, imperceptible in themselves, which belong to -the night, and the moon made everything sacred, spreading a white -beatitude even over the distant peaks of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> hills. The girl, in her -great trouble and anxiety, felt soothed and stilled, without any reason, -by those ineffable ministrations of nature which are above all rule. She -avoided the gravel, which rang and jarred under her feet, and wandered -across the dry grass, which was burned brown with the heat, not like the -verdant English turf, towards the edge of the slope. She had enough to -think of, but, for the moment, in the hush of the night, did not think -at all, but gave herself over to the tranquillizing calm. Her cares went -from her for the time; the light and the night together went to her -heart. Sometimes this quiet will come unsought to those who are deeply -weighted with pain and anxiety; and Rosalind was very young; and when -all nature says it so unanimously, how is a young creature to -contradict, and say that all will not be well? Even the old and weary -will be deceived, and take that on the word of the kind skies and -hushed, believing earth. She strayed about among the great laurels and -daphnes, under the shadow of the trees, with her spirit calmed and -relieved from the pressure of troublous events and thoughts. She had -forgotten, in that momentary exaltation, that any interruption was -possible, and stood, clearly visible in the moonlight, looking out upon -the lake, when she heard the sound behind her of an uncertain step -coming out upon the veranda, then, crossing the gravel path, coming -towards her. She had not any thought of concealing herself, nor had she -time to do so, when Everard came up to her, breathless with haste, and -what seemed to be excitement. He said quickly, “You were not in the -drawing-room, and the window was open. I thought you would not mind if I -came after you.” Rosalind looked up at him somewhat coldly, for she had -forgotten he was there.</p> - -<p>“I thought you had gone,” she said, turning half towards him, as -if—which was true—she did not mean to be disturbed. His presence had a -jarring effect, and broke the enchantment of the scene. He was always -instantly sensitive to any rebuff.</p> - -<p>“I thought,” he repeated apologetically, “that you would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> not mind. You -have always made me feel so much—so much at home.”</p> - -<p>These ill-chosen words roused Rosalind’s pride. “My aunt,” she said, -“has always been very glad to see you, Mr. Everard, and grateful to you -for what you have done for us.”</p> - -<p>“Is that all?” he said hastily; “am I always to have those children -thrown in my teeth? I thought now, by this time, that you might have -cared for me a little for myself; I thought we had taken to each other,” -he added, with a mixture of irritation and pathos, with the -straightforward sentiment of a child; “for you know very well,” he -cried, after a pause, “that it is not for nothing I am always coming; -that it is not for the children, nor for your aunt, nor for anything but -you. You know that I think of nothing but you.”</p> - -<p>The young man’s voice was hurried and tremulous with real feeling, and -the scene was one, above all others, in harmony with a love tale; and -Rosalind’s heart had been touched by many a soft illusion in respect to -the speaker, and had made him, before she knew him, the subject of many -a dream; but at this supreme moment a strange effect took place in her. -With a pang, acute as if it had been cut off by a blow, the mist of -illusion was suddenly severed, and floated away from her, leaving her -eyes cold and clear. A sensation of shame that she should ever have been -deceived, that she could have deceived him, ran hot through all her -being. “I think,” she said quickly, “Mr. Everard, that you are speaking -very wildly. I know nothing at all of why you come, of what you are -thinking.” Her tone was indignant, almost haughty, in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he cried, “I know what you think; you think that I am not as good -as you are, that I’m not a gentleman. Rosalind, if you knew who I was -you would not think that. I could tell you about somebody that you are -very, very fond of; ay! and make it easy for you to see her and be with -her as much as ever you pleased, if you would listen to me. If you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span> only -knew, there are many, many things I could do for you. I could clear up a -great deal if I chose. I could tell you much you want to know if I -chose. I have been fighting off John Trevanion, but I would not fight -off you. If you will only promise me a reward for it; if you will let -your heart speak; if you will give me what I am longing for, Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>He poured forth all this with such impassioned haste, stammering with -excitement and eagerness, that she could but partially understand the -sense, and not at all the extraordinary meaning and intention with which -he spoke. She stood with her face turned to him, angry, bewildered, -feeling that the attempt to catch the thread of something concealed and -all-important in what he said was more than her faculties were equal to; -and on the surface of her mind was the indignation and almost shame -which such an appeal, unjustified by any act of hers, awakens in a -sensitive girl. The sound of her own name from his lips seemed to strike -her as if he had thrown a stone at her. “Mr. Everard,” she cried, -scarcely knowing what words she used, “you have no right to call me -Rosalind. What is it you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he cried, with a laugh, “you ask me that! you want to have what I -can give, but give me nothing in return.”</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Rosalind, quickly, “that you forget yourself, Mr. -Everard. A gentleman, if he has anything to tell, does not make -bargains. What is it, about some one, whom you say I love—” She began -to tremble very much, and put her hands together in an involuntary -prayer! “Oh, if it should be—Mr. Everard! I will thank you all my life -if you will tell me—”</p> - -<p>“Promise me you will listen to me, Rosalind; promise me! I don’t want -your thanks; I want your—love. I have been after you for a long, long -time; oh, before anything happened. Promise me—”</p> - -<p>He put out his hands to clasp hers, but this was more than she could -bear. She recoiled from him, with an unconscious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span> revelation of her -distaste, almost horror, of these advances, which stung his self-esteem. -“You won’t!” he cried, hoarsely; “I am to give everything and get -nothing? Then I won’t neither, and that is enough for to-night—”</p> - -<p>He had got on the gravel again, in his sudden, angry step backward, and -turned on his heel, crushing the pebbles with a sound that seemed to jar -through all the atmosphere. After he had gone a few steps he paused, as -if expecting to be called back. But Rosalind’s heart was all aflame. She -said to herself, indignantly, that to believe such a man had anything to -tell her was folly, was a shame to think of, was impossible. To chaffer -and bargain with him, to promise him anything—her love, oh Heaven! how -dared he ask it?—was intolerable. She turned away with hot, feminine -impulse, and a step in which there was no pause or wavering; increasing -the distance between them at a very different rate from that achieved by -his lingering steps. It seemed that he expected to be recalled after she -had disappeared altogether and hidden herself, panting, among the -shadows; for she could still hear his step pause with that jar and harsh -noise upon the gravel for what seemed to her, in her excitement, an hour -of suspense. And Rosalind’s heart jarred, as did all the echoes. Harsh -vibrations of pain went through and through it. The rending away of her -own self-illusion in respect to him, which was not unmingled with a -sense of guilt—for that illusion had been half voluntary, a fiction of -her own creating, a refuge of the imagination from other thoughts—and -at the same time a painful sense of his failure, and proof of the -floating doubt and fear which had always been in her mind on his -account, wounded and hurt her with almost a physical reality of pain. -And what was this suggestion, cast into the midst of this whirlpool of -agitated and troubled thought?—“I could tell you; I could make it easy -for you to see; I could clear up—” What? oh what, in the name of -Heaven! could he mean?</p> - -<p>She did not know how long she remained pondering these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span> questions, -making a circuitous round through the grounds, under the shadows, until -she got back again, gliding noiselessly to the veranda, from which she -could dart into the house at any return of her unwelcome suitor. But she -still stood there after all had relapsed into the perfect silence of -night in such a place. The tourists in the boat had rowed to the beach -and disembarked, and disappeared on their way home. The evening breeze -dropped altogether and ceased to move the trees, while she still stood -against the trellis-work scarcely visible in the gloom, wondering, -trying to think, trying to satisfy the questions that arose in her mind, -with a vague sense that if she but knew what young Everard meant, there -might be in it some guide, some clue to the mystery which weighed upon -her soul. But this was not all that Rosalind was to encounter. While she -stood thus gazing out from her with eyes that noted nothing, yet could -not but see, she was startled by something, a little wandering shadow, -not much more substantial than her dreams, which flitted across the -scene before her. Her heart leaped up with a pang of terror. What was -it? When the idea of the supernatural has once gained admission into the -mind the mental perceptions are often disabled in after-emergencies. Her -strength abandoned her. She covered her eyes with her hands, with a rush -of the blood to her head, a failing of all her powers. Something white -as the moonlight flitting across the moonlight, a movement, a break in -the stillness of nature. When she looked up again there was nothing to -be seen. Was there nothing to be seen? With a sick flutter of her heart, -searching the shadows round with keen eyes, she had just made sure that -there was nothing on the terrace, when a whiteness among the shrubs drew -her eyes farther down. Her nerves, which had played her false for a -moment, grew steady again, though her heart beat wildly. There came a -faint sound like a footstep, which reassured her a little. In such -circumstances sound is salvation. She herself was a sight to have -startled any beholder, as timidly, breathlessly, under the impulse of a -visionary terror, she came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span> out, herself all white, into the whiteness -of the night. She called “Is there any one there?” in a very tremulous -voice. No answer came to her question; but she could now see clearly the -other moving speck of whiteness, gliding on under the dark trees, -emerging from the shadows, on to a little point of vision from which the -foliage had been cleared a little farther down. It stood there for a -moment, whiteness on whiteness, the very embodiment of a dream. A sudden -idea flashed into Rosalind’s mind, relieving her brain, and, without -pausing a moment, she hurried down the path, relieved from one fear only -to be seized by another. She reached the little ghost as it turned from -that platform to continue the descent. The whiteness of the light had -stolen the color out of the child’s hair. She was like a little statue -in alabaster, her bare feet, her long, half-curled locks, the folds of -her nightdress, all softened and rounded in the light. “Amy!” cried -Rosalind—but Amy did not notice her sister. Her face had the solemn -look of sleep, but her eyes were open. She went on unconscious, going -forward to some visionary end of her own from which no outward influence -could divert her. Rosalind’s terror was scarcely less great than when -she thought it an apparition. She followed, with her heart and her head -both throbbing, the unconscious little wanderer. Amy went down through -the trees and shrubs to the very edge of the lake, so close that -Rosalind behind hovered over her, ready at the next step to seize upon -her, her senses coming back, but her mind still confused, in her -perplexity not knowing what to do. Then there was for a moment a -breathless pause. Amy turned her head from side to side, as if looking -for some one; Rosalind seated herself on a stone to wait what should -ensue. It was a wonderful scene. The dark trees waved overhead, but the -moon, coming down in a flood of silver, lit up all the beach below. It -might have been an allegory of a mortal astray, with a guardian angel -standing close, watching, yet with no power to save. The water moving -softly with its ceaseless ripple, the soft yet chill air of night -rustling in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> leaves, were the only things that broke the stillness. -The two human figures in the midst seemed almost without breath.</p> - -<p>Rosalind did not know what to do. In the calm of peaceful life such -incidents are rare. She did not know whether she might not injure the -child by awaking her. But while she waited, anxious and trembling, -Nature solved the question for her. The little wavelets lapping the -stones came up with a little rush and sparkle in the light an inch or -two farther than before, and bathed Amy’s bare feet. The cold touch -broke the spell in a moment. The child started and sprang up with a -sudden cry. What might have happened to her had she woke to find herself -alone on the beach in the moonlight, Rosalind trembled to think. Her cry -rang along all the silent shore, a cry of distracted and bewildering -terror: “Oh, mamma! mamma! where are you?” then Amy, turning suddenly -round, flew, wild with fear, fortunately into her sister’s arms.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind! is it Rosalind? And where is mamma? oh, take me to mamma. She -said she would be here.” It was all Rosalind could do to subdue and -control the child, who nearly suffocated her, clinging to her throat, -urging her on: “I want mamma—take me to mamma!” she cried, resisting -her sister’s attempts to lead her up the slope towards the house. -Rosalind’s strength was not equal to the struggle. After a while her own -longing burst forth. “Oh, if I knew where I could find her!” she said, -clasping the struggling child in her arms. Amy was subdued by Rosalind’s -tears. The little passion wore itself out. She looked round her, -shuddering in the whiteness of the moonlight. “Rosalind! are we all -dead, like mamma?” Amy said.</p> - -<p>The penetrating sound of the child’s cry reached the house and far -beyond it, disturbing uneasy sleepers all along the edge of the lake. It -reached John Trevanion, who was seated by himself, chewing the cud of -fancy, bitter rather than sweet, and believing himself the only person -astir in the house. There is something in a child’s cry which touches -the hardest heart; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> his heart was not hard. It did not occur to him -that it could proceed from any of the children of the house, but it was -too full of misery and pain to be neglected. He went out, hastily -opening the great window, and was, in his terror, almost paralyzed by -the sight of the two white figures among the trees, one leaning upon the -other. It was only after a momentary hesitation that he hurried towards -them, arriving just in time, when Rosalind’s strength was about giving -way, and carried Amy into the house. The entire household, disturbed, -came from all corners with lights and outcries. But Amy, when she had -been warmed and comforted, and laid in Rosalind’s bed, and recovered -from her sobbing, had no explanations to give. She had dreamed she was -going to mamma, that mamma was waiting for her down on the side of the -lake. “Oh, I want mamma, I want mamma!” the child cried, and would not -be comforted.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIII" id="CHAPTER_LIII"></a>CHAPTER LIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Arthur Rivers</span> had come home on the top of the wave of prosperity; his -little war was over, and if it were not he who had gained the day, he -yet had a large share of its honors. It was he who had made it known to -all the eager critics in England, and given them the opportunity to let -loose their opinion. He had kept the supply of news piping hot, one -supply ready to be served as soon as the other was despatched, to the -great satisfaction of the public and of his “proprietors.” His -well-known energy, daring, and alertness, the qualities for which he had -been sent out, had never been so largely manifested before. He had -thrown himself into the brief but hot campaign with the ardor of a -soldier. But there was more in it than this. It was with the ardor of a -lover that he had labored—a lover with a great deal to make up to bring -him to the level of her he loved. And his zeal had been rewarded. He was -coming home, to an important post, with an established place and -position<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> in the world, leaving his life of adventure and wandering -behind him. They had their charms, and in their time he had enjoyed -them; but what he wanted now was something that it would be possible to -ask Rosalind to share. Had he been the commander, as he had only been -the historian of the expedition; had he brought back a baronetcy and a -name famous in the annals of the time, his task would have been easier. -As it was, his reputation—though to its owner very agreeable—was of a -kind which many persons scoff at. The soldiers, for whom he had done -more than anybody else could do, recommending them to their country as -even their blood and wounds would never have recommended them without -his help, did not make any return for his good offices, and held him -cheap; but, on the other hand, it had procured him his appointment, and -made it possible for him to put his question to Rosalind into a -practical shape and repeat it to her uncle. He came home with his mind -full of this and of excitement and eagerness. He had no time to lose. He -was too old for Rosalind as well as not good enough for her, not rich -enough, not great enough. Sir Arthur Rivers, K.C.B., the conquering -hero—that would have been the right thing. But since he was not that, -the only thing he could do was to make the most of what he was. He could -give her a pretty house in London, where she would see the best of -company; not the gentle dulness of the country, but all the wits, all -that was brilliant in society, and have the cream of those amusements -and diversions which make life worth living in town. That is always -something to offer, if you have neither palaces nor castles, nor a great -name, nor a big fortune. Some women would think it better than all -these; and he knew that it would be full of pleasures and pleasantness, -not dull—a life of variety and brightness and ease. Was it not very -possible that these things would tempt her, as they have tempted women -more lofty in position than Rosalind? And he did not think her relations -would oppose it if she so chose. His family was very obscure; but that -has ceased to be of the importance it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span> once was. He did not believe that -John Trevanion would hesitate on account of his family. If only Rosalind -should be pleased! It was, perhaps, because he was no longer quite young -that he thought of what he had to offer; going over it a thousand times, -and wondering if this and that might not have a charm to her as good, -perhaps better, than the different things that other people had to -offer. He was a man who was supposed to know human nature and to have -studied it much, and had he been writing a book he would no doubt have -scoffed at the idea of a young girl considering the attractions of -different ways of living and comparing what he had to give with what -other people possessed. But there was a certain humility in the way in -which his mind approached the subject in his own case, not thinking of -his own personal merits. He could give her a bright and full and -entertaining life. She would never be dull with him. That was better -even than rank, he said to himself.</p> - -<p>Rivers arrived a few days after the Trevanion party had gone to Bonport. -He was profoundly pleased and gratified to find John Trevanion waiting -at the station, and to receive his cordial greeting. “My sister will -expect to see you very soon,” he said. “They think it is you who are the -hero of the war; and, indeed, so you have been, almost as much as Sir -Ruby, and with fewer jealousies; and the new post, I hear, is a capital -one. I should say you were a lucky fellow, if you had not worked so well -for it all.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I hear it is a pleasant post; and to be able to stay at home, and -not be sent off to the end of the earth at a moment’s notice—”</p> - -<p>“How will you bear it? that is the question,” said John Trevanion. “I -should not wonder if in a year you were bored to death.”</p> - -<p>Rivers shook his head, with a laugh. “And I hope all are well,” he said; -“Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>He did not venture as yet to put the question more plainly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span></p> - -<p>“We are all well enough,” said John, “though there are always vexations. -Oh! nothing of importance, I hope; only some bother about the children -and Rosalind. That’s why I removed them; but Rex is coming, and another -young fellow, Hamerton—perhaps you recollect him at Clifton. I hope -they will cheer us up a little. There is their train coming in. Let us -see you soon. Good-night!”</p> - -<p>Another young fellow, Hamerton! Then it was not to meet him, Rivers, -that Trevanion was waiting. There was no special expectation of him. It -was Rex, the schoolboy, and young Hamerton who was to cheer them -up—Rex, a sulky young cub, and Hamerton, a thick-headed rustic. John -went off quite unconscious of the arrow he had planted in his friend’s -heart, and Rivers turned away, with a blank countenance, to his hotel, -feeling that he had fallen down—down from the skies into a bottomless -abyss. All this while, during so many days of travel, he had been coming -towards her; now he seemed to be thrown back from her—back into -uncertainty and the unknown. He lingered a little as the train from -Paris came in, and heard John Trevanion’s cheerful “Oh, here you are!” -and the sound of the other voices. It made his heart burn to think of -young Hamerton—the young clodhopper!—going to her presence, while he -went gloomily to the hotel. His appearance late for dinner presented a -new and welcome enigma to the company who dined at the <i>table d’hôte</i>. -Who was he? Some one fresh from India, no doubt, with that bronzed -countenance and hair which had no right to be gray. There was something -distinguished about his appearance which everybody remarked, and a -little flutter of curiosity to know who he was awoke, especially among -the English people, who, but that he seemed so entirely alone, would -have taken him for Sir Ruby himself. Rivers took a little comfort from -the sense of his own importance and of the sensation made by his -appearance. But to arrive here with his mind full of Rosalind, and to -find himself sitting alone at a foreign <i>table d’hôte</i>, with half the -places empty and not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span> creature he knew, chilled him ridiculously—he -who met people he knew in every out-of-the-way corner in the earth. And -all the time Hamerton at her side—Hamerton, a young nobody! There was -no doubt that it was very hard to bear. As soon as dinner was over he -went out to smoke his cigar and go over again, more ruefully than ever, -his prospects of success. It was a brilliant moonlight night, the trees -in the hotel garden standing, with their shadows at their feet, in a -blackness as of midnight, while between, every vacant space was full of -the intense white radiance. He wandered out and in among them, gloomily -thinking how different the night would have been had he been looking -down upon the silver lake by the side of Rosalind. No doubt that was -what she was doing. Would there be any recollection of him among her -thoughts, or of the question he had asked her in the conservatory at the -Elms? Would she think he was coming for his answer, and what in all this -long interval had she been making up her mind to reply?</p> - -<p>He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he took no note of the few -people about. These were very few, for though the night was as warm as -it was bright, it was yet late in the season, and the rheumatic people -thought there was a chill in the air. By degrees even the few figures -that had been visible at first dwindled away, and Rivers at last awoke -to the consciousness that there was but one left, a lady in black, very -slight, very light of foot, for whose coming he was scarcely ever -prepared when she appeared, and who shrank into the shadow as he came -up, as if to avoid his eye. Something attracted him in this mysterious -figure, he could not tell what, a subtile sense of some link of -connection between her and himself; some internal and unspoken -suggestion which quickened his eyes and interest, but which was too -indefinite to be put into words. Who could she be? Where had he seen -her? he asked, catching a very brief, momentary glimpse of her face; but -he was a man who knew everybody, and it was little wonder if the names<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span> -of some of his acquaintances should slip out of his recollection. It -afforded him a sort of occupation to watch for her, to calculate when in -the round of the garden which she seemed to be making she would come to -that bare bit of road, disclosed by the opening in the trees, where the -moonlight revealed in a white blaze everything that passed. He was for -the moment absorbed in this pursuit—for it was in reality a pursuit, a -sort of hunt through his own mind for some thread of association -connected with a wandering figure like this—when some one else, a -new-comer, came hastily into the garden, and established himself at a -table close by. There was no mistaking this stranger—a robust young -Englishman still in his travelling dress, whom Rivers recognized with -mingled satisfaction and hostility. He was not then spending the evening -with Rosalind, this young fellow who was not worthy to be admitted to -her presence. That was a satisfaction in its way. He had been received -to dinner because he came with the boy, but that was all. Young Hamerton -sat down in the full moonlight where no one could make any mistake about -him. He recognized Rivers with a stiff little bow. They said to each -other, “It is a beautiful night,” and then relapsed respectively into -silence. But in the heat of personal feeling thus suddenly evoked, -Rivers forgot the mysterious lady for a moment, and saw her no more. -After some time the new-comer said to him, with a sort of reluctant -abruptness, “They are rather in trouble over there,” making a gesture -with his hand to indicate some locality on the other side of the darkly -waving trees.</p> - -<p>“In trouble—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not of much importance, perhaps. The children—have all -been—upset; I don’t understand it quite. There was something that -disturbed them—in the hotel here. Perhaps you know—”</p> - -<p>“I only arrived this evening,” Rivers said.</p> - -<p>The other drew a long breath. Was it of relief? Perhaps he had spoken -only to discover whether his rival had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span> long enough in the -neighborhood to have secured any advantage. “We brought over the old -nurse with us—the woman, you know, who— Oh, I forgot, you don’t know,” -Hamerton added, hastily. This was said innocently enough, but it -offended the elder suitor, jealous and angry after the unreasonable -manner of a lover, that any one, much less this young fellow, whose -pretensions were so ridiculous, should have known her and her -circumstances before and better than himself.</p> - -<p>“I prefer not to know anything that the Trevanions do not wish to be -known,” he said sharply. It was not true, for his whole being quivered -with eagerness to know everything about them, all that could be told; -but at the same time there was in his harsh tones a certain justness of -reproach that brought the color to young Hamerton’s face.</p> - -<p>“You are quite right,” he said; “it is not my business to say word.”</p> - -<p>And then there was silence again. It was growing late. The verandas of -the great hotel, a little while ago full of chattering groups, were all -vacant; the lights had flitted up-stairs; a few weary waiters lounged -about the doors, anxiously waiting till the two Englishmen—so culpably -incautious about the night air and the draughts, so brutally indifferent -to the fact that Jules and Adolphe and the rest had to get up very early -in the morning and longed to be in bed—should come in, and all things -be shut up; but neither Hamerton nor Rivers thought of Adolphe and -Jules.</p> - -<p>Finally, after a long silence, the younger man spoke again. His mind was -full of one subject, and he wanted some one to speak to, were it only -his rival. “This cannot be a healthy place,” he said; “they are not -looking well—they are all—upset. I suppose it is bad for—the -nerves—”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps there may be other reasons,” said Rivers. His heart stirred -within him at the thought that agitation, perhaps of a nature kindred to -his own, might be affecting the one person who was uppermost in the -thoughts of both—for he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span> did not doubt that Hamerton, who had said -<i>them</i>, meant Rosalind. That she might be pale with anticipation, -nervous and tremulous in this last moment of suspense! the idea brought -a rush of blood to his face, and a warm flood of tender thoughts and -delight to his heart.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what other reasons,” said Hamerton. “She thinks— I mean -there is nothing thought of but those children. Something has happened -to them. The old nurse, the woman— I told you—came over with us to take -them in hand. Poor little things? it is not much to be wondered at—” he -said, and then stopped short, with the air of a man who might have a -great deal to say.</p> - -<p>A slight rustling in the branches behind caught Rivers’ attention. All -his senses were very keen, and he had the power, of great advantage in -his profession, of seeing and hearing without appearing to do so. He -turned his eyes, but not his head, in the direction of that faint sound, -and saw with great wonder the lady whom he had been watching, an almost -imperceptible figure against the opaque background of the high shrubs, -standing behind Hamerton. Her head was a little thrust forward in the -attitude of listening, and the moon just caught her face. He was too -well disciplined to suffer the cry of recognition which came to his lips -to escape from them, but in spite of himself expressed his excitement in -a slight movement—a start which made the rustic chair on which he was -seated quiver, and displaced the gravel under his feet. Hamerton did not -so much as notice that he had moved at all, but the lady’s head was -drawn back, and the thick foliage behind once more moved as by a breath, -and all was still. Rivers was very much absorbed in one pursuit and one -idea, which made him selfish; but yet his heart was kind. He conquered -his antipathy to the young fellow who was his rival, whom (on that -ground) he despised, yet feared, and forced himself to ask a question, -to draw him on. “What has happened to the children,” he said; “are they -ill?” There was a faint breeze<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span> in the tree-tops, but none down here in -the solid foliage of the great bushes; yet there was a stir in the -laurel as of a bird in its nest.</p> - -<p>“They are not ill, but yet something has happened. I believe the little -things have been seeing ghosts. They sent for this woman, Russell, you -know—confound her—”</p> - -<p>“Why confound her?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s a long story—confound her all the same! There are some women -that it is very hard for a man not to wish to knock down. But I suppose -they think she’s good for the children. That is all they think of, it -appears to me,” Roland said, dejectedly. “The children—always the -children—one cannot get in a word. And as for anything else—anything -that is natural—”</p> - -<p>This moved Rivers on his own account. Sweet hope was high in his heart. -It might very well be that this young fellow could not get in a word. -Who could tell that the excuse of the children might not be made use of -to silence an undesired suitor, to leave the way free for— His soul -melted with a delicious softness and sense of secret exultation. “Let us -hope their anxiety may not last,” he said, restraining himself, keeping -as well as he could the triumph out of his voice. Hamerton looked at him -quickly, keenly; he felt that there was exultation—something -exasperating—a tone of triumph in it.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last,” he said. “Little Amy is like a -little ghost herself; but how can it be otherwise in such an unnatural -state of affairs—the mother gone, and all the responsibility put upon -one—upon one who— For what is Mrs. Lennox?” he cried, half angrily; “oh -yes, a good, kind soul—but she has to be taken care of too—and all -upon one—upon one who—”</p> - -<p>“You mean Miss Trevanion?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean—to bring in any names. Look here,” cried the young man, -“you and I, Rivers—we are not worthy to name her name.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span></p> - -<p>His voice was a little husky; his heart was in his mouth. He felt a sort -of brotherly feeling even for this rival who might perhaps, being clever -(he thought), be more successful than he, but who, in the meantime, had -more in common with him than any other man, because he too loved -Rosalind. Rivers did not make any response. Perhaps he was not young -enough to have this feeling for any woman. A man may be very much in -love—may be ready even to make any exertion, almost any sacrifice, to -win the woman he loves, and yet be unable to echo such a sentiment. He -could not allow that he was unworthy to name her name. Hamerton scarcely -noticed his silence, and yet was a little relieved not to have any -response.</p> - -<p>“I am a little upset myself,” he said, “because you know I’ve been mixed -up with it all from the beginning, which makes one feel very differently -from those that don’t know the story. I couldn’t help just letting out a -little. I beg your pardon for taking up your time with what perhaps -doesn’t interest you.”</p> - -<p>This stung the other man to the quick. “It interests me more, perhaps, -than you could understand,” he cried. “But,” he added, after a pause, -“it remains to be seen whether the family wish me to know—not certainly -at second-hand.”</p> - -<p>Hamerton sprang to his feet in hot revulsion of feeling. “If you mean me -by the second-hand,” he said; then paused, ashamed both of the good -impulse and the less good which had made him thus betray himself. “I beg -your pardon,” he added; “I’ve been travelling all day, and I suppose I’m -tired and apt to talk nonsense. Good-night.”</p> - -<p>Jules and Adolphe were glad. They showed the young Englishman to his -room with joy, making no doubt that the other would follow. But the -other did not follow. He sat for a time silently, with his head on his -hand. Then he rose, and walking to the other side of the great bouquet -of laurels, paused in the profound shadow, where there stood, as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span> -divined rather than saw, a human creature in mysterious anguish, -anxiety, and pain. He made out with difficulty a tall shadow against the -gloomy background of the close branches. “I do not know who you are,” he -said; “I do not ask to know; but you are deeply interested in what -that—that young fellow was saying?”</p> - -<p>The voice that replied to him was very low. “Oh, more than interested; -it is like life and death to me. For God’s sake, tell me if you know -anything more.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing to-night—but to-morrow— You are the lady whom I met in -Spain two years ago, whose portrait stands on Rosalind Trevanion’s -writing-table.”</p> - -<p>There was a low cry; “Oh! God bless you for telling me! God bless you -for telling me!” and the sound of a suppressed sob.</p> - -<p>“I shall see her to-morrow,” he said. “I have come thousands of miles to -see her. It is possible that I might be of use to you. May I tell her -that you are here?”</p> - -<p>The stir among the branches seemed to take a different character as he -spoke, and the lady came out towards the partial light. She said firmly, -“No; I thank you for your kind intentions;” then paused. “You will think -it strange that I came behind you and listened. You will think it was -not honorable. But I heard their name, and Roland Hamerton knows me. -When a woman is in great trouble she is driven to strange expedients. -Sir,” she cried, after another agitated pause, “I neither know your name -nor who you are, but if you will bring me news to-morrow after you have -seen them—if you will tell me—it will be a good deed—it will be a -Christian deed.”</p> - -<p>“Say something more to me than that,” he cried, with a passion that -surprised himself; “say that you will wish me well.”</p> - -<p>She moved along softly, noiselessly, with her head turned to him, moving -towards the moonlight, which was like the blaze of day, within a few -steps from where they had been standing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span> The impression which had been -upon his mind of a fugitive—a woman abandoned and forlorn—died out so -completely that he felt ashamed ever to have ventured upon such a -thought. And he felt, with a sudden sense of imperfection quite -unfamiliar to him, that he was being examined and judged. He felt, too, -with an acute self-consciousness, that the silver in his hair shone in -the white light, and that the counterbalancing qualities of fine outline -and manly color must be wanting in that wan and colorless illumination. -He could not see her face, except as an abstract paleness, turned -towards him, over-shadowed by the veil which she had put back, but which -still threw a deep shade; but she gazed into his, which he could not but -turn towards her in the full light of the moon. The end of the -examination was not very consolatory to his pride. She sighed and turned -away. “The man whom she chooses will want no other blessing,” she said.</p> - -<p>A few minutes after Jules and Adolphe were happy, shutting up the doors, -putting out the lights, betaking themselves to the holes and corners -under the stairs, under the roofs, in which these sufferers for the good -of humanity slept.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIV" id="CHAPTER_LIV"></a>CHAPTER LIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> incident of that evening had a very disturbing effect upon the -family at Bonport. Little Amy, waking next morning much astonished to -find herself in Rosalind’s room, and very faintly remembering what had -happened, was subjected at once to questionings more earnest than -judicious—questionings which brought everything to her mind, with a -renewal of all the agitation of the night. But the child had nothing to -say beyond what she had said before—that she had dreamed of mamma, that -mamma had called her to come down to the lake, and be taken home; that -she wanted to go home, to go to mamma—oh, to go to mamma! but Rosalind -said she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397"></a>{397}</span> dead, and Sophy said they were never, never to see her -again. Then Amy flung herself upon her sister’s breast, and implored to -be taken to her mother. “You don’t know how wicked I was, Rosalind. -Russell used to say things till I stopped loving mamma—oh, I did, and -did not mind when she went away! But now! where is she, where is she? -Oh, Rosalind! oh, Rosalind! will she never come back? Oh, do you think -she is angry, or that she does not care for me any more? Oh, Rosalind, -is she dead, and will she never come back?” This cry seemed to come from -Amy’s very soul. She could not be stilled. She lay in Rosalind’s bed, as -white as the hangings about her, not much more than a pair of dark eyes -looking out with eagerness unspeakable. And Rosalind, who had gone -through so many vicissitudes of feeling—who had stood by the mother who -was not her mother with so much loyalty, yet had yielded to the progress -of events, and had not known, in the ignorance of her youth, what to do -or say, or how to stand against it— Rosalind was seized all at once by a -vehement determination and an intolerable sense that the present -position of affairs was impossible, and could not last.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my darling!” she cried; “get well and strong, and you and I will go -and look for her, and never, never be taken from her again!”</p> - -<p>“But, Rosalind, if mamma is dead?” cried little Amy.</p> - -<p>The elder people who witnessed this scene stole out of the room, unable -to bear it any longer.</p> - -<p>“It must be put a stop to,” John Trevanion said, in a voice that was -sharp with pain.</p> - -<p>“Oh, who can put a stop to it?” cried Mrs. Lennox, weeping, and -recovering herself and weeping again. “I should not have wondered, not -at all, if it had happened at first; but, after these years! And I that -thought children were heartless little things, and that they had -forgot!”</p> - -<p>“Can Russell do nothing, now you have got her here?” he cried with -impatience, walking up and down the room. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398"></a>{398}</span> was at his wits’ end, and -in his perplexity felt himself incapable even of thought.</p> - -<p>“Oh, John, did you not hear what that little thing said? She put the -children against their mother. Amy will not let Russell come near her. -If I have made a mistake, I meant it for the best. Russell is as -miserable as any of us. Johnny has forgotten her, and Amy cannot endure -the sight of her. And now it appears that coming to Bonport, which was -your idea, is a failure too, though I am sure we both did it for the -best.”</p> - -<p>“That is all that could be said for us if we were a couple of -well-intentioned fools,” he cried. “And, indeed, we seem to have acted -like fools in all that concerns the children,” he added, with a sort of -bitterness. For what right had fate to lay such a burden upon him—him -who had scrupulously preserved himself, or been preserved by Providence, -from any such business of his own?</p> - -<p>“John,” said Mrs. Lennox, drying her eyes, “I don’t think there is so -much to blame yourself about. You felt sure it would be better for them -being here; and when you put it to me, so did I. You never thought of -the lake. Why should you think of the lake? We never let them go near it -without somebody to take care of them in the day, and how could any one -suppose that at night—”</p> - -<p>Upon this her brother seized his hat and hurried from the house. The -small aggravation seemed to fill up his cup so that he could bear no -more, with this addition, that Mrs. Lennox’s soft purr of a voice roused -mere exasperation in him, while his every thought of the children, even -when the cares they brought threatened to overwhelm him, was tender with -natural affection. But, in fact, wherever he turned at this moment he -saw not a gleam of light, and there was a bitterness as of the deferred -and unforeseen in this sudden gathering together of clouds and dangers -which filled him almost with awe. The catastrophe itself had passed over -much more quietly than could have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399"></a>{399}</span> thought. But, lo, here, when no -fear was, the misery came. His heart melted within him when he thought -of Amy’s little pale face and that forlorn expedition in the stillness -of the night to the side of the lake which betrayed, as nothing else -could have done, the feverish working of her brain and the disturbance -of her entire being. What madness of rage and jealousy must that have -been that induced a man to leave this legacy of misery behind him to -work in the minds of his little children years after he was dead! and -what appalling cruelty and tyranny it was which made it possible for a -dead man, upon whom neither argument nor proof could be brought to bear, -thus to blight by a word so many lives! All had passed with a strange -simplicity at first, and with such swift and silent carrying-out of the -terrible conditions of the will that there had been no time to think if -any expedient were possible. Looking back upon it, it seemed to him -incredible that anything so extraordinary should have taken place with -so little disturbance. <i>She</i> had accepted her fate without a word, and -every one else had accepted it. The bitterness of death seemed to have -passed, except for the romance of devotion on Rosalind’s part, which he -believed had faded in the other kind of romance more natural at her age. -No one but himself had appeared to remember at all this catastrophe -which rent life asunder. But now, when no one expected it, out of the -clear sky came the explosions of the storm. He had decided too quickly -that all was over. The peace had been but a pretence, and now the whole -matter would have to be re-opened again.</p> - -<p>The cause of the sudden return of all minds to the great family disaster -and misery seemed to him more than ever confused by this last event. The -condition which had led to Amy’s last adventure seemed to make it more -possible, notwithstanding Sophy’s supposed discovery, that the story of -the apparition was an illusion throughout. The child, always a visionary -child, must have had, in the unnatural and strained condition of her -nerves and long repression of her feelings, a dream so vivid as,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400"></a>{400}</span> like -that of last night, to take the aspect of reality; and Rosalind, full of -sympathy, and with all her own keen recollections ready to be called -forth at a touch, must have received the contagion from her little -sister, and seen what Amy had so long imagined she saw. Perhaps, even, -it was the same contagion, acting on a matter-of-fact temperament, which -had induced Sophy to believe that she, too, had seen her mother, but in -real flesh and blood. Of all the hypotheses that could be thought of -this seemed to him the most impossible. He had examined all the hotel -registers, and made anxious inquiries everywhere, without finding a -trace of Mrs. Trevanion. She had not, so far as he was aware, renounced -her own name. And, even had she done so, it was impossible that she -could have been in the hotel without some one seeing her, without -leaving some trace behind. Notwithstanding this certainty, John -Trevanion, even while he repeated his conviction to himself, was making -his way once more to the hotel to see whether, by any possibility, some -light might still be thrown upon a subject which had become so urgent. -Yet even that, though it was the first thing that presented itself to -him, had become, in fact, a secondary matter. The real question in this, -as in all difficulties, was what to do next. What could be done to -unravel the fatal tangle? Now that he contemplated the matter from afar, -it became to him all at once a thing intolerable—a thing that must no -longer be allowed to exist. What was publicity, what was scandal, in -comparison with this wreck of life? There must be means, he declared to -himself, of setting an unrighteous will aside, whatever lawyers might -say. His own passiveness seemed incredible to him, as well as the -extraordinary composure with which everybody else had acquiesced, -accepting the victim’s sacrifice. But that was over. Even though the -present agitation should pass away, he vowed to himself that it should -not pass from him until he had done all that man could do to set the -wrong right.</p> - -<p>While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401"></a>{401}</span> walking into -Aix with the speed of a man who has urgent work before him, though that -work was nothing more definite or practical than the examination over -again of the hotel books to see if there he could find any clew. He -turned them over and over in his abstraction, going back without knowing -it to distant dates, and roaming over an endless succession of names -which conveyed no idea to his mind. He came at last, on the last page, -to the name of Arthur Rivers, with a dull sort of surprise. “To be sure, -Rivers is here!” he said to himself aloud.</p> - -<p>“Yes, to be sure I am here. I have been waiting to see if you would find -me out,” Rivers said behind him. John did not give him so cordial a -welcome as he had done on the previous night.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I have so much on my mind I forget -everything. Were you coming out to see my sister? We can walk together. -The sun is warm, but not too hot for walking. That’s an advantage of -this time of the year.”</p> - -<p>“It is perhaps too early for Mrs. Lennox,” Rivers said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, not too early. The truth is we are in a little confusion. One -of the children has been giving us a great deal of anxiety.”</p> - -<p>“Then, perhaps,” said Rivers, with desperate politeness, “it will be -better for me not to go.” He felt within himself, though he was so -civil, a sort of brutal indifference to their insignificant distresses, -which were nothing in comparison with his own. To come so far in order -to eat his breakfast under the dusty trees, and dine at the table d’hôte -in a half-empty hotel at Aix, seemed to him so great an injustice and -scorn in the midst of his fame and importance that even the discovery he -had made, though it could not but tell in the situation, passed from his -mind in the heat of offended consequence and pride.</p> - -<p>John Trevanion, for his part, noticed the feeling of the other as little -as Rivers did his. “One of the children has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402"></a>{402}</span> walking in her sleep,” -he said. “I don’t want to get a fool of a doctor who thinks of nothing -but rheumatism. One of them filled my good sister’s mind with folly -about suppressed gout. Poor little Amy! She has a most susceptible -brain, and I am afraid something has upset it. Do you believe in ghosts, -Rivers?”</p> - -<p>“As much as everybody does,” said Rivers, recovering himself a little.</p> - -<p>“That is about all that any one can say. This child thinks she has seen -one. She is a silent little thing. She has gone on suffering and never -said a word, and the consequence is, her little head has got all wrong.”</p> - -<p>By this time Rivers, having cooled down, began to see the importance of -the disclosure he had to make. He said, “Would you mind telling me what -the apparition was? You will understand, Trevanion, that I don’t want to -pry into your family concerns, and that I would not ask without a -reason.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion looked at him intently with a startled curiosity and -earnestness. “I can’t suppose,” he said, “when it comes to that, much as -we have paid for concealment, that you have not heard something—”</p> - -<p>“Miss Trevanion told me,” said Rivers—he paused a moment, feeling that -it was a cruel wrong to him that he should be compelled to say Miss -Trevanion—he who ought to have been called to her side at once, who -should have been in a position to claim her before the world as his -Rosalind—“Miss Trevanion gave me to understand that the lady whom I had -met in Spain, whose portrait was on her table, was—”</p> - -<p>“My sister-in-law—the mother of the children—yes, yes—and what then?” -John Trevanion cried.</p> - -<p>“Only this, Trevanion—that lady is here.”</p> - -<p>John caught him by the arm so fiercely, so suddenly, that the leisurely -waiters standing about, and the few hotel guests who were moving out and -in in the quiet of the morning stopped and stared with ideas of rushing -to the rescue. “What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403"></a>{403}</span> do you mean?” he said. “Here? How do you know? It -is impossible.”</p> - -<p>“Come out into the garden, where we can talk. It may be impossible, but -it is true. I also saw her last night.”</p> - -<p>“You must be mad or dreaming, Rivers. You too—a man in your -senses—and— God in heaven!” he said, with a sudden bitter sense of his -own unappreciated friendship—unappreciated even, it would seem, beyond -the grave—“that she should have come, whatever she had to say, to -you—to any one—and not to me!”</p> - -<p>“Trevanion, you are mistaken. This is no apparition. There was no -choice, of me or any one. That poor lady, whether sinned against or -sinning I have no knowledge, is here. Do you understand me? She is -here.”</p> - -<p>They were standing by this time in the shadow of the great laurel bushes -where she had sheltered on the previous night. John Trevanion said -nothing for a moment. He cast himself down on one of the seats to -recover his breath. It was just where Hamerton had been sitting. Rivers -almost expected to see the faint stir in the bushes, the evidence of -some one listening, to whom the words spoken might, as she said, be -death or life.</p> - -<p>“This is extraordinary news,” said Trevanion at last. “You will pardon -me if I was quite overwhelmed by it. Rivers, you can’t think how -important it is. Where can I find her? You need not fear to betray -her—oh, Heaven, to betray her to me, her brother! But you need not -fear. She knows that there is no one who has more—more regard, more -respect, or more— Let me know where to find her, my good fellow, for -Heaven’s sake!”</p> - -<p>“Trevanion, it is not any doubt of you. But, in the first place, I don’t -know where to find her, and then—she did not disclose herself to me. I -found her out by accident. Have I any right to dispose of her secret? I -will tell you everything I know,” he added hastily, in answer to the -look and gesture, almost of despair, which John could not restrain. -“Last night<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404"></a>{404}</span> your friend, young Hamerton, was talking—injudiciously, I -think”—there was a little sweetness to him in saying this, even in the -midst of real sympathy and interest—“he was talking of what was going -on in your house. I had already seen some one walking about the garden -whose appearance I seemed to recollect. When Hamerton mentioned your -name” (he was anxious that this should be made fully evident), “she -heard it; and by and by I perceived that some one was listening, behind -you, just there, in the laurels.”</p> - -<p>John started up and turned round, gazing at the motionless, glistening -screen of leaves, as if she might still be there. After a moment—“And -what then?”</p> - -<p>“Not much more. I spoke to her afterwards. She asked me, for the love of -God, to bring her news, and I promised—what I could—for to-night.”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion held out his hand, and gave that of Rivers a strong -pressure. “Come out with me to Bonport. You must hear everything, and -perhaps you can advise me. I am determined to put an end to the -situation somehow, whatever it may cost,” he said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LV" id="CHAPTER_LV"></a>CHAPTER LV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> two men went out to Bonport together, and on the way John Trevanion, -half revolted that he should have to tell it, half relieved to talk of -it to another man, and see how the matter appeared to a person -unconcerned, with eyes clear from prepossession of any kind, either -hostile or tender, gave his companion all the particulars of his painful -story. It was a relief; and Rivers, who had been trained for the bar, -gave it at once as his opinion that the competent authorities would not -hesitate to set such a will aside, or at least, on proof that no moral -danger would arise to the children, would modify its restrictions -greatly. “Wills are sacred theoretically; but there has always been <i>a -power of</i> revision,” he said. And he suggested practical<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405"></a>{405}</span> means of -bringing this point to a trial—or at least to the preliminary trial of -counsel’s advice, which gave his companion great solace. “I can see that -we all acted like fools,” John Trevanion confessed, with a momentary -over-confidence that his troubles might be approaching an end. “We were -terrified for the scandal, the public discussion, that would have been -sure to rise—and no one so much as she. Old Blake was all for the -sanctity of the will, as you say, and I—I was so torn in two with -doubts and—miseries—”</p> - -<p>“But I presume,” Rivers said, “these have all been put to rest. There -has been a satisfactory explanation—”</p> - -<p>“Explanation!” cried John. “Do you think I could ask, or she condescend -to give, what you call explanations? She knew her own honor and purity; -and she knew,” he added with a long-drawn breath, “that I knew them as -well as she—”</p> - -<p>“Still,” said Rivers, “explanations are necessary when it is brought -before the public.”</p> - -<p>“It shall never be brought before the public!”</p> - -<p>“My dear Trevanion! How then are you to do anything, how set the will -aside?”</p> - -<p>This question silenced John; and it took further speech out of the mouth -of his companion, who felt, on his side, that if he were about to be -connected with the Trevanion family, it would not be at all desirable, -on any consideration, that this story should become public. He had been -full of interest in the woman whose appearance had struck him before he -knew anything about her, and who had figured so largely in his first -acquaintance with Rosalind. But when it became a question of a great -scandal occupying every mind and tongue, and in which it was possible -his own wife might be concerned—that was a very different matter. In a -great family such things are treated with greater case. If it is true -that an infringement on their honor, a blot on the scutcheon, is -supposed to be of more importance where there is a noble scutcheon to -tarnish, it is yet true that a great family history would lose much of -its interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406"></a>{406}</span> if it were not crossed now and then by a shadow of -darkness, a tale to make the hearers shudder; and that those who are -accustomed to feel themselves always objects of interest to the world -bear the shame of an occasional disclosure far better than those sprung -from a lowlier level whose life is sacred to themselves, and who guard -their secrets far more jealously than either the great or the very -small. Rivers, in the depth of his nature, which was not that of a born -patrician, trembled at the thought of public interference in the affairs -of a family with which he should be connected. All the more that it -would be an honor and elevation to him to be connected with it, he -trembled to have its secrets published. It was not till after he had -given his advice on the subject that this drawback occurred to him. He -was not a bad man, to doom another to suffer that his own surroundings -might go free; but when he thought of it he resolved that, if he could -bring it about, Rosalind’s enthusiasm should be calmed down, and she -should learn to feel for her stepmother only that calm affection which -stepmothers at the best are worthy of, and which means separation rather -than unity of interests. He pondered this during the latter part of the -way with great abstraction of thought. He was very willing to take -advantage of his knowledge of Mrs. Trevanion, and of the importance it -gave him to be their only means of communication with her; but further -than this he did not mean to go. Were Rosalind once his, there should -certainly be no room in his house for a stepmother of blemished fame.</p> - -<p>And there were many things in his visit to Bonport which were highly -unsatisfactory to Rivers. John Trevanion was so entirely wrapped in his -own cares as to be very inconsiderate of his friend, whose real object -in presenting himself at Aix at all he must no doubt have divined had he -been in possession of his full intelligence. He took the impatient lover -into the grounds of the house where Rosalind was, and expected him to -take an interest in the winding walks by which little Amy had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407"></a>{407}</span> strayed -down to the lake, and all the scenery of that foolish little episode. -“If her sister had not followed her, what might have happened? The child -might have been drowned, or, worse still, might have gone mad in the -shock of finding herself out there all alone. It makes one shudder to -think of it.” Rivers did not shudder; he was not very much interested -about Amy. But his nerves were all jarred by the contrariety of the -circumstances as he looked up through the shade of the trees to the -house at the top of the little eminence, where Rosalind was, but as much -out of his reach as if she had been at the end of the world. He did not -see her until much later, when he returned at John Trevanion’s -invitation to dinner. Rosalind was very pale, but blushed when she met -him with a consciousness which he scarcely knew how to interpret. Was -there hope in the blush, or was it embarrassment—almost pain? She said -scarcely anything during dinner, sitting in the shadow of the pink -<i>abat-jour</i>, and of her aunt Sophy, who, glad of a new listener, poured -forth her soul upon the subject of sleep-walking, and told a hundred -stories, experiences of her own and of other people, all tending to -prove that it was the most usual thing in the world, and that, indeed, -most children walked in their sleep. “The thing to do is to be very -careful not to wake them,” Mrs. Lennox said. “That was Rosalind’s -mistake. Oh, my dear, there is no need to tell me that you didn’t mean -anything that wasn’t for the best. Nobody who has ever seen how devoted -you are to these children—just like a mother—could suppose that; but I -understand,” said Aunt Sophy with an air of great wisdom, “that you -should never wake them. Follow, to see that they come to no harm, and -sometimes you may be able to guide them back to their own room—which is -always the best thing to do—<i>but never wake them</i>; that is the one -thing you must always avoid.”</p> - -<p>“I should think Rivers has had about enough of Amy’s somnambulism by -this time,” John said. “Tell us something about yourself. Are you going -to stay long? Are you on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408"></a>{408}</span> your way northwards? All kinds of honor and -glory await you at home, we know.”</p> - -<p>“My movements are quite vague. I have settled nothing,” Rivers replied. -And how could he help but look at Rosalind, who, though she never lifted -her eyes, and could not have seen his look, yet changed color in some -incomprehensible way? And how could he see that she changed color in the -pink gloom of the shade, which obscured everything, especially such a -change as that? But he did see it, and Rosalind was aware he did so. -Notwithstanding his real interest in the matter, it was hard for him to -respond to John Trevanion’s questions about the meeting planned for this -evening. It had been arranged between them that John should accompany -Rivers back to the hotel, that he should be at hand should the -mysterious lady consent to see him; and the thought of this possible -interview was to him as absorbing as was the question of Rosalind’s -looks to his companion. But they had not much to say to each other, each -being full of his own thoughts as they sat together for those few -minutes after dinner which were inevitable. Then they followed each -other gloomily into the drawing-room, which was vacant, though a sound -of voices from outside the open window betrayed where the ladies had -gone. Mrs. Lennox came indoors as they approached. “It is a little -cold,” she said, with a shiver. But Rivers found it balm as he stepped -out and saw Rosalind leaning upon the veranda among the late roses, with -the moonlight making a sort of silvery gauze of her light dress. He came -out and placed himself by her; but the window stood open behind, with -John Trevanion within hearing, and Mrs. Lennox’s voice running on quite -audibly close at hand. Was it always to be so? He drew very near to her, -and said in a low voice, “May I not speak to you?” Rosalind looked at -him with eyes which were full of a beseeching earnestness. She did not -pretend to be ignorant of what he meant. The moonlight gave an -additional depth of pathetic meaning to her face, out of which it stole -all the color.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409"></a>{409}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Rivers, not now!” she said, with an appeal which he could not -resist. Poor Rivers turned and left her in the excitement of the moment. -He went along the terrace to the farther side with a poor pretence of -looking at the landscape, in reality to think out the situation. What -could he say to recommend himself, to put himself in the foreground of -her thoughts? A sudden suggestion flashed upon him, and he snatched at -it without further consideration. When he returned to where he had left -her, Rosalind was still there, apparently waiting. She advanced towards -him shyly, with a sense of having given him pain. “I am going in now to -Amy,” she said; “I waited to bid you good-night.”</p> - -<p>“One word,” he said. “Oh, nothing about myself, Miss Trevanion. I will -wait, if I must not speak. But I have a message for you.”</p> - -<p>“A message—for me!” She came a little nearer to him, with that strange -divination which accompanies great mental excitement, feeling -instinctively that what he was about to say must bear upon the subject -of her thoughts.</p> - -<p>“You remember,” he said, “the lady whom I told you I had met? I have met -her again, Miss Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>“Where?” She turned upon him with a cry, imperative and passionate.</p> - -<p>“Miss Trevanion, I have never forgotten the look you gave me when I said -that the lady was accompanied by a man. I want to explain; I have found -out who it was.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers!”</p> - -<p>“Should I be likely to tell you anything unfit for your ears to hear? I -know better now. The poor lady is not happy, in that any more than in -any other particular of her lot. The man was her son.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Her son!</i>” Rosalind’s cry was such that it made Mrs. Lennox stop in -her talk; and John Trevanion, from the depths of the dark room behind, -came forward to know what it was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410"></a>{410}</span></p> - -<p>“I felt that I must tell you; you reproached me with your eyes when I -said— But, if I wronged her, I must make reparation. It was in all -innocence and honor; it was her son.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers!” cried Rosalind, turning upon him, her breast heaving, her -lips quivering, “this shows it is a mistake. I might have known all the -time it was a mistake. She had no son except— It was not the same. Thank -you for wishing to set me right; but it could not be the same. It is no -one we know. It is a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“But when I tell you, Miss Trevanion, that she said—”</p> - -<p>“No, no, you must not say any more. We know nothing; it is a mistake.” -Disappointment, with, at the same time, a strange, poignant smart, as of -some chance arrow striking her in the dark, which wounded her without -reason, without aim, filled her mind. She turned quickly, eluding the -hand which Rivers had stretched out, not pausing even for her uncle, and -hastened away without a word. John Trevanion turned upon Rivers, who -came in slowly from the veranda with a changed and wondering look. “What -have you been saying to Rosalind? You seem to have frightened her,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it seems all a mistake,” he replied vaguely. He was, in fact, -greatly cast down by the sudden check he had received. In the height of -his consciousness that his own position as holding a clew to the -whereabouts of this mysterious woman was immeasurably advantaged, there -came upon him this chill of doubt lest perhaps after all— But then she -had herself declared that to hear of the Trevanions was to her as life -and death. Rivers did not know how to reconcile Rosalind’s instant -change of tone, her evident certainty that his information did not -concern her, with the impassioned interest of the woman whom he half -felt that he had betrayed. How he had acquired the information which he -had thought it would be a good thing for him thus to convey he could -scarcely have told. It had been partly divination, partly some echo of -recollection; but he felt certain that he was right; and he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411"></a>{411}</span> also -felt certain that to hear it would please Rosalind. He was altogether -cast down by her reception of his news. He did not recover himself -during all the long walk back to Aix in the moonlight, which he made in -company with John Trevanion. But John was absorbed in the excitement of -the expected meeting, and did not disturb him by much talking. They -walked along between the straight lines of the trees, through black -depths of shadow and the white glory of the light, exchanging few words, -each wrapped in his own atmosphere. When the lights of the town were -close to them John spoke. “Whether she will speak to me or not, you must -place me where I can see her, Rivers. I must make sure.”</p> - -<p>“I will do the best I can,” said Rivers; “but what if it should all turn -out to be a mistake?”</p> - -<p>“How can it be a mistake? Who else would listen as you say she did? Who -else could take so much interest? But I must make sure. Place me, at -least, where I may see her, even if I must not speak.”</p> - -<p>The garden was nearly deserted, only one or two solitary figures in -shawls and overcoats still lingering in the beauty of the moonlight. -Rivers placed John standing in the shadow of a piece of shrubbery, close -to the open space which she had crossed as she made her round of the -little promenade, and he himself took the seat under the laurels which -he had occupied on the previous night. He thought there was no doubt -that she would come to him, that after the hotel people had disappeared -she would be on the watch, and hasten to hear what he had to tell her. -When time passed on and no one appeared, he got up again and began -himself to walk round and round, pausing now and then to whisper to John -Trevanion that he did not understand it—that he could not imagine what -could be the cause of the delay. They waited thus till midnight, till -the unfortunate waiters on the veranda were nearly distracted, and every -intimation of the late hour which these unhappy men could venture to -give had been given. When twelve<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412"></a>{412}</span> struck, tingling through the blue air, -John Trevanion came, finally, out of his hiding-place, and Rivers from -his chair. They spoke in whispers, as conspirators instinctively do, -though there was nobody to hear. “I cannot understand it,” said Rivers, -with the disconcerted air of a man whose exhibition has failed. “I don’t -think it is of any use waiting longer,” said John. “Oh, of no use. I am -very sorry, Trevanion. I confidently expected—” “Something,” said John, -“must have happened to detain her. I am disappointed, but still I do not -cease to hope; and if, in the meantime, you see her, or any trace of -her—” “You may be sure I will do my best,” Rivers said, ashamed, though -it was no fault of his, and, notwithstanding Rosalind’s refusal to -believe, with all his faith in his own conclusions restored.</p> - -<p>They shook hands silently, and John Trevanion went away downcast and -disappointed. When he had gone down the narrow street and emerged into -the Place, which lay full in the moonlight, he saw two tall, dark -shadows in the very centre of the white vacancy and brightness in the -deserted square. They caught his attention for the moment, and he -remembered after that a vague question crossed his mind what two women -could be doing out so late. Were they sisters of charity, returning from -some labor of love? Thus he passed them quickly, yet with a passing -wonder, touched, he could not tell how, by something forlorn in the two -solitary women, returning he knew not from what errand. Had he but known -who these wayfarers were!</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVI" id="CHAPTER_LVI"></a>CHAPTER LVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Two</span> days after this, while as yet there had appeared no further solution -of the mystery, Roland Hamerton came hastily one morning up the sloping -paths of Bonport into the garden, where he knew he should find Rosalind. -He was in the position of a sort of outdoor member of the household, -going and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413"></a>{413}</span> coming at his pleasure, made no account of, enjoying the -privileges of a son and brother rather than of a lover. But the -advantages of this position were great. He saw Rosalind at all hours, in -all circumstances, and he was himself so much concerned about little -Amy, and so full of earnest interest in everything that affected the -family, that he was admitted even to the most intimate consultations. To -Rosalind his presence had given a support and help which she could not -have imagined possible; especially in contrast with Rivers, who -approached her with that almost threatening demand for a final -explanation, and shaped every word and action so as to show that the -reason for his presence here was her and her only. Roland’s self-control -and unfeigned desire to promote her comfort first of all, before he -thought of himself, was in perfect contrast to this, and consolatory -beyond measure. She had got to be afraid of Rivers; she was not at all -afraid of the humble lover who was at the same time her old friend, who -was young like herself, who knew everything that had happened. This was -the state to which she had come in that famous competition between the -three, who ought, as Mr. Ruskin says, to have been seven. One she had -withdrawn altogether from, putting him out of the lists with mingled -repulsion and pity. Another she had been seized with a terror of, as of -a man lying in wait to devour her. The third—he was no one; he was only -Roland; her lover in the nursery, her faithful attendant all her life. -She was not afraid of him, nor of any exaction on his part. Her heart -turned to him with a simple reliance. He was not clever, he was not -distinguished; he had executed for her none of the labors either of -Hercules or any other hero. He had on his side no attractions of natural -beauty, or any of those vague appeals to the imagination which had given -Everard a certain power over her; and he had not carried her image with -him, as Rivers had done, through danger and conflict, or brought back -any laurels to lay at her feet. If it had been a matter of competition, -as in the days of chivalry,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414"></a>{414}</span> or in the scheme of our gentle yet vehement -philosopher, Roland would have had little chance. But after the year was -over in which Rosalind had known of the competition for her favor, he it -was who remained nearest. She glanced up with an alarmed look to see who -was coming, and her face cleared when she saw it was Roland. He would -force no considerations upon her, ask no tremendous questions. She gave -him a smile as he approached. She was seated under the trees, with the -lake gleaming behind for a background through an opening in the foliage. -Mrs. Lennox’s chair still stood on the same spot, but she was not there. -There were some books on the table, but Rosalind was not reading. She -had some needlework in her hands, but that was little more than a -pretence; she was thinking, and all her thoughts were directed to one -subject. She smiled when he came up, yet grudged to lose the freedom of -those endless thoughts. “I thought,” she said, “you were on the water -with Rex.”</p> - -<p>“No, I told you I wanted something to do. I think I have got what I -wanted, but I should like to tell you about it, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” she said, looking up again with a smiling interrogation. She -thought it was about some piece of exercise or amusement, some long walk -he was going to take, some expedition which he wanted to organize.</p> - -<p>“I have heard something very strange,” he said. “It appears that I said -something the other night to Rivers, whom I found when I went back to -the hotel, and that somebody, some lady, was seen to come near and -listen. I was not saying any harm, you may suppose, but only that the -children were upset. And this lady came around to hear what I was -saying.”</p> - -<p>His meaning did not easily reach Rosalind, who was preoccupied, and did -not connect Roland at all with the mystery around her. She said, “That -was strange; who could it be; some one who knew us in the hotel?”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, I have never liked to say anything to you about—Madam.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415"></a>{415}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t!” she said, holding up her hand; “oh, don’t, Roland. The only -time you spoke to me about her you hurt me—oh, to the very heart; not -that I believed it; but it was so grievous that you could think, that -you could say—that you could see even, anything—”</p> - -<p>“I have thought it over a hundred times since then, and what you say is -true, Rosalind. One has no right even to see things that—there are some -people who are above even— I know now what you mean, and that it is -true. You knew her better than any one else, and your faith is mine. -That is why I came to tell you. Rosalind—who could that woman be but -one? She came behind the bushes to hear what I was saying. She was all -trembling—who else could that be?”</p> - -<p>“Roland!” Rosalind had risen up, every tinge of color ebbing from her -face; “you too!—you too—!”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, rising also, taking her hand; “not that, not that, -Rosalind. If she were dead, as you think, would she not know everything? -She would not need to listen to me. This is what I am sure of, that she -is here and trying every way—”</p> - -<p>She grasped his hands as if her own were iron, and then let them go, and -threw herself into her seat, and sobbed, unable to speak, “Oh, Roland! -oh, Roland!” with a cry that went to his heart.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind,” he said, leaning over her, touching her shoulder, and her -hair, with a sympathy which filled his eyes with tears, and would not be -contented with words, “listen; I am going to look for her now. I sha’n’t -tire of it, whoever tires. I shall find her, Rosalind. And then, if she -will let me take care of her, stand by her, bring her news of you all—! -I have wronged her more than anybody, for I thought that I believed; see -if I don’t make up for it now. I could not go without telling you— I -shall find her, Rosalind,” the young man cried.</p> - -<p>She rose up again, trembling, and uncovered her face. Her cheeks were -wet with tears, her eyes almost wild with hope and excitement. “I’ll -come with you,” she said. “I had made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416"></a>{416}</span> up my mind before. I will bear it -no longer. Let them take everything; what does it matter? I am not only -my father’s daughter, I am myself first of all. If she is living, -Roland—”</p> - -<p>“She is living, I am sure.”</p> - -<p>“Then as soon as we find her—oh no, she would go away from me; when you -find her Roland— I put all my trust in you.”</p> - -<p>“And then,” he cried breathlessly, “and then? No, I’ll make no bargains; -only say you trust me, dear. You did say you trusted me, Rosalind.”</p> - -<p>“With all my heart,” she said.</p> - -<p>And as Rosalind looked at him, smiling with her eyes full of tears, the -young man turned and hurried away. When he was nearly out of sight he -looked back and waved his hand: she was standing up gazing after him as -if—as if it were the man whom she loved was leaving her. That was the -thought that leaped up into his heart with an emotion indescribable—the -feeling of one who has found what he had thought lost and beyond his -reach. As if it were the man she loved! Could one say more than that? -“But I’ll make no bargains, I’ll make no bargains,” he said to himself. -“It’s best to be all for love and nothing for reward.”</p> - -<p>While this scene was being enacted in the garden, another, of a very -different description, yet bearing on the same subject, was taking place -in the room which John Trevanion, with the instinct of an Englishman, -called his study. The expedient of sending for Russell had not been very -successful so far as the nursery was concerned. The woman had arrived in -high elation and triumph, feeling that her “family” had found it -impossible to go on any longer without her, and full of the best -intentions, this preliminary being fully acknowledged. She had meant to -make short work with Johnny’s visions and the dreams of Amy, and to show -triumphantly that she, and she only, understood the children. But when -she arrived at Bonport her reception was not what she had hoped. The -face of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_417" id="page_417"></a>{417}</span> affairs was changed. Johnny, who saw no more apparitions, no -longer wanted any special care, and Russell found the other woman in -possession, and indisposed to accept her dictation, or yield the place -to her, while Amy, now transferred to Rosalind’s room and care, shrank -from her almost with horror. All this had been bitter to her, a -disappointment all the greater that her hopes had been so high. She -found herself a supernumerary, not wanted by any one in the house, where -she had expected to be regarded as a deliverer. The only consolation she -received was from Sophy, who had greatly dropped out of observation -during recent events, and was as much astonished and as indignant to -find Amy the first object in the household, and herself left out, as -Russell was in her humiliation. The two injured ones found great solace -in each other in these circumstances. Sophy threw herself with -enthusiasm into the work of consoling, yet embittering, her old -attendant’s life. Sophy told her all that had been said in the house -before her arrival, and described the distaste of everybody for her with -much graphic force. She gave Russell also an account of all that had -passed, of the discovery which she believed she herself had made, and -further, though this of itself sent the blood coursing through Russell’s -veins, of the other incidents of the family life, and of Rosalind’s -lovers; Mr. Rivers, who had just come from the war, and Mr. Everard, who -was the gentleman who had been at the Red Lion. “Do you think he was in -love with Rosalind then, Russell?” Sophy said, her keen eyes dancing -with curiosity and eagerness. Russell said many things that were very -injudicious, every word of which Sophy laid up in her heart, and felt -with fierce satisfaction that her coming was not to be for nothing, and -that the hand of Providence had brought her to clear up this imbroglio. -She saw young Everard next day, and convinced herself of his identity, -and indignation and horror blazed up within her. Russell scarcely slept -all night, and as she lay awake gathered together all the subjects of -wrath she had, and piled them high. Next morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_418" id="page_418"></a>{418}</span> she knocked at John -Trevanion’s door, with a determination to make both her grievances and -her discovery known at once.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Trevanion,” said Russell, “may I speak a word with you, sir, if you -please?”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion turned around upon his chair, and looked at her with -surprise, and an uncomfortable sense of something painful to come. What -had he to do with the women-servants? That, at least, was out of his -department. “What do you want?” he asked in a helpless tone.</p> - -<p>“Mr. John,” said Russell, drawing nearer, “there is something that I -must say. I can’t say it to Mrs. Lennox, for she’s turned against me -like the rest. But a gentleman is more unpartial like. Do you know, sir, -who it is that is coming here every day, and after Miss Rosalind, as -they tell me? After Miss Rosalind! It’s not a thing I like to say of a -young lady, and one that I’ve brought up, which makes it a deal worse; -but she has no proper pride. Mr. John, do you know who that Mr. Everard, -as they call him, is?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know who he is. You had better attend to the affairs of the -nursery, Russell.”</p> - -<p>This touched into a higher blaze the fire of Russell’s wrath. “The -nursery! I’m not allowed in it. There is another woman there that thinks -she has the right to my place. I’m put in a room to do needlework, Mr. -John. Me! and Miss Amy in Miss Rosalind’s room, that doesn’t know no -more than you do how to manage her. But I mustn’t give way,” the woman -cried, with an effort. “Do you know as the police are after him, Mr. -John? Do you know it was all along of him as Madam went away?”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion sprang from his chair. “Be silent, woman!” he cried; “how -dare you speak so to me?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve said it before, and I will again!” cried Russell—“a man not half -her age. Oh, it was a shame!—and out of a house like Highcourt—and a -lady that should know better, not a poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_419" id="page_419"></a>{419}</span> servant like them that are -sent out of the way at a moment’s notice when they go wrong. Don’t lift -your hand to me, Mr. John. Would you strike a woman, sir, and call -yourself a gentleman? And you that brought me here against my will when -I was happy at home. I won’t go out of the room till I have said my -say.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said John, with a laugh which was half rage, though the idea that -he was likely to strike Russell was a ludicrous exasperation. “No, as -you are a woman I can’t, unfortunately, knock you down, whatever -impertinence you may say.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad of that, sir,” said Russell, “for you looked very like it; -and I’ve served the Trevanions for years, though I don’t get much credit -for it, and I shouldn’t like to have to say as the lady of the house -forgot herself for a boy, and a gentleman of the house struck a woman. -I’ve too much regard for them to do that.”</p> - -<p>Here she paused to take breath, and then resumed, standing in an -attitude of defence against the door, whither John’s threatening aspect -had driven her: “You mark my words, sir,” cried Russell, “where that -young man is, Madam’s not far off. Miss Sophy, that has her wits about -her, she has seen her—and the others that is full of fancies they’ve -seen what they think is a ghost; and little Miss Amy, she is wrong in -the head with it. This is how I find things when I’m telegraphed for, -and brought out to a strange place, and then told as I’m not wanted. But -it’s Providence as wants me here. Mrs. Lennox—she always was soft— I -don’t wonder at her being deceived; and, besides, she wasn’t on the -spot, and she don’t know. But, Mr. Trevanion, you were there all the -time. You know what goings-on there were. It wasn’t the doctor or the -parson Madam went out to meet, and who was there besides? Nobody but -this young man. When a woman’s bent on going wrong, she’ll find out the -way. You’re going to strike me again! but it’s true. It was him she met -every night, every night, out in the cold. And then he saw Miss -Rosalind, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_420" id="page_420"></a>{420}</span> he thought to himself—here’s a young one, and a rich -one, and far nicer than that old— Mr. John! I know more than any of you -know, and I’ll put up with no violence, Mr. John!”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion’s words will scarcely bear repeating. He put her out of -the room with more energy than perhaps he ought to have employed with a -woman; and he bade her go to the devil with her infernal lies. Profane -speech is not to be excused, but there are times when it becomes mere -historical truth and not profanity at all. They were infernal lies, the -language and suggestion of hell even if—even if—oh, that a bleeding -heart should have to remember this!—even if they were true. John shut -the door of his room upon the struggling woman and came back to face -himself, who was more terrible still. Even if they were true! They -brought back in a moment a suggestion which had died away in his mind, -but which never had been definitely cast forth. His impulse when he had -seen this young Everard had been to take him by the collar and pitch him -forth, and refuse him permission even to breathe the same air: -“Dangerous fellow, hence; breathe not where princes are!” but then a -sense of confusion and uncertainty had come in and baffled him. There -was no proof, either, that Everard was the man, or that there was any -man. It was not Madam’s handwriting, but her husband’s, that had -connected the youth with Highcourt; and though he might have a thousand -faults, he did not look the cold-blooded villain who would make his -connection with one woman a standing ground upon which to establish -schemes against another. John Trevanion’s brow grew quite crimson as the -thought went through his mind. He was alone, and he was middle-aged and -experienced in the world; and two years ago many a troublous doubt, and -something even like a horrible certainty, had passed through his mind. -But there are people with whom it is impossible to associate shame. Even -if shame should be all but proved against them, it will not hold. When -he thought an evil thought of Madam—nay, when that thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_421" id="page_421"></a>{421}</span> had but a -thoroughfare through his mind against his will, the man felt his cheek -redden and his soul faint. And here, too, were the storm-clouds of that -catastrophe which was past, rolling up again, full of flame and wrath. -They had all been silent then, awestricken, anxious to hush up and pass -over, and let the mystery remain. But now this was no longer possible. A -bewildering sense of confusion, of a darkness through which he could not -make his way, of strange coincidences, strange contradictions, was in -John Trevanion’s mind. He was afraid to enter upon this maze, not -knowing to what conclusion it might lead him. And yet now it must be -done.</p> - -<p>Only a very short time after another knock came to his door, and -Rosalind entered, with an atmosphere about her of urgency and -excitement. She said, without any preface:</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, I have come to tell you what I have made up my mind to do. -Do you remember that in two days I shall be of age, and my own mistress? -In two days!”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” he said, “I hope you have not been under so hard a taskmaster -as to make you impatient to be free.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Rosalind. “Oh, not a hard taskmaster; but life has been -hard, Uncle John! As soon as I am my own mistress I am going, Amy and I, -to—you know. I cannot rest here any longer. Amy will be safe; she can -have my money. But this cannot go on any longer. If we should starve, we -must find my mother. I know you will say she is not my mother. And who -else, then? She is all the mother I have ever known. And I have left her -these two years under a stain which she ought not to bear, and in misery -which she ought not to bear. Was it ever heard of before that a mother -should be banished from her children? I was too young to understand it -all at first; and I had no habit of acting for myself; and perhaps you -would have been right to stop me; but now—”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I should have stopped you. But, Rosalind, I have come myself -to a similar resolution,” he said. “It must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_422" id="page_422"></a>{422}</span> all be cleared up. But not -by you, my dear, not by you. If there is anything to discover that is to -her shame—”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing, Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, you don’t know how mysterious human nature is. There are fine -and noble creatures such as she is—as she is! don’t think I deny it, -Rosalind—who may have yet a spot, a stain, which a man like me may see -and grieve for and forgive, but you—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John, say that a woman like me may wash away with tears, if -you like, but that should never, never be betrayed to the eyes of a -man!”</p> - -<p>He took her into his arms, weeping as she was, and he not far from it. -“Rosalind, perhaps yours is the truest way; but yet, as common people -think, and according to the way of the world—”</p> - -<p>“Which is neither your way nor mine,” cried the girl.</p> - -<p>“And you can say nothing to change my mind; I was too young at the time. -But now—if she has died,” Rosalind said, with difficulty swallowing -down the “climbing sorrow” in her throat, “she will know at least what -we meant. And if she is living there is no rest but with our mother for -Amy and me. And the child shall not suffer, Uncle John, for she shall -have what is mine.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, you are still in the absolute stage—you see nothing that can -modify your purposes. My dear, you should have had your mother to speak -to on this subject. There are two men here, Rosalind, to whom—have you -not some duty, some obligation? They both seem to me to be waiting—for -what, Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>Rosalind detached herself from her uncle’s arm. A crimson flush covered -her face. “Is it—dishonorable?” she said.</p> - -<p>In the midst of his emotion John Trevanion could not suppress a smile. -“That is, perhaps, a strong word.”</p> - -<p>“It would be dishonorable in a man,” she cried, lifting her eyes with a -hot color under them which seemed to scorch her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_423" id="page_423"></a>{423}</span></p> - -<p>“It would be impossible in a man, Rosalind,” he said gravely; “the -circumstances are altogether different. And yet you too owe something to -Roland, who has loved you all his life, poor fellow, and to Rivers, who -has come here neglecting everything for your sake. I do not know,” he -added, in a harsher tone, “whether there may not be still another -claim.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are unjust, Uncle John,” she said, with tremulous dignity. -“And if it is as you say, these gentlemen have followed their own -inclinations, not mine. Am I bound because they have seen fit— But that -would be slavery for a woman.” Then her countenance cleared a little, -and she added, “When you know all that is in my mind you will not -disapprove.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you will make a wise decision, Rosalind,” he said. “But at least -do nothing—make up your mind to do nothing—till the time comes.” He -spoke vaguely, and so did she, but in the excitement of their minds -neither remarked this in the other. For he had not hinted to her, nor -her to him, the possibility of some great new event which might happen -at any moment and change all plans and thoughts.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVII" id="CHAPTER_LVII"></a>CHAPTER LVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rosalind</span> left her uncle with the thrill of her resolution in all her -veins. She met, as she crossed the ante-room, Rivers, who had just come -in and was standing waiting for a reply to the petition to be admitted -to see her which he had just sent by a servant. She came upon him -suddenly while he stood there, himself wound up to high tension, full of -passion and urgency, feeling himself ill-used, and determined that now, -at last, this question should be settled. He had failed indeed in -pushing his suit by means of the mysterious stranger whom he had not -seen again; but this made him only return with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_424" id="page_424"></a>{424}</span> additional vehemence to -his own claim, the claim of a man who had waited a year for his answer. -But when he saw Rosalind there came over him that instant softening -which is so apt to follow an unusual warmth of angry feeling, when we -are “wroth with those we love.” He thought at first that she had come to -him in answer to his message, granting all he asked by that gracious -personal response. “Rosalind!” he cried, putting out his hands. But next -moment his countenance reflected the blush in hers, as she turned to him -startled, not comprehending and shrinking from this enthusiastic -address. “I beg your pardon,” he said, crushing his hat in his hands. “I -was taken by surprise. Miss Trevanion, I had just sent to ask—”</p> - -<p>Rosalind was seized by a sort of helpless terror. She was afraid of him -and his passion. She said, “Uncle John is in his room. Oh, forgive me, -please! If it is me, will you wait—oh, will you be so kind as to wait -till Thursday? Everything will be settled then. I shall know then what I -have to do. Mr. Rivers, I am very sorry to give you so much trouble—”</p> - -<p>“Trouble!” he cried; his voice was almost inarticulate in the excess of -emotion. “How can you use such words to me? As if trouble had anything -to do with it; if you would send me to the end of the earth, so long as -it was to serve you, or give me one of the labors of Hercules— Yes, I -know I am extravagant. One becomes extravagant in the state of mind in -which— And to hear you speak of trouble—”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers,” said Rosalind, humble in her sense of guilt, “I have a -great many things to think of. You don’t know how serious it is; but on -Thursday I shall be of age, and then I can decide. Come then, if you -will, and I will tell you. Oh, let me tell you on Thursday—not now!”</p> - -<p>“That does not sound very hopeful for me,” he said. “Miss Trevanion, -remember that I have waited a year for my answer—few men do that -without—without—”</p> - -<p>And then he paused, and looked at her with an air which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_425" id="page_425"></a>{425}</span> was at once -fierce and piteous, defiant and imploring. And Rosalind shrank with a -sense of guilt, feeling that she had no right to hold him in suspense, -yet frightened by his vehemence, and too much agitated to know what to -say.</p> - -<p>“On Thursday,” she said, mechanically; “on Thursday— You shall not -complain of me any more.” She held out her hand to him with a smile, -apologetic and deprecatory, which was very sweet, which threw him into a -bewilderment unspeakable. She was cruel without knowing it, without -intending it. She had, she thought, something to make up to this man, -and how could she do it but by kindness—by showing him that she was -grateful—that she liked and honored him? He went away asking himself a -thousand questions, going over and over her simple words, extracting -meanings from them of which they were entirely innocent, framing them at -last to the signification which he wished. He started from Bonport full -of doubt and uneasiness, but before he reached his hotel a foolish -elation had got the better of these sadder sentiments. He said to -himself that these words could have but one meaning. “You shall not -complain of me any more.” But if she cast him off after this long -probation he would have very good reason to complain. It was impossible -that she should prepare a refusal by such words; and, indeed, if she had -meant to refuse him, could she have postponed her answer again? Is it -not honor in a woman to say “No” without delay, unless she means to say -“Yes?” It is the only claim of honor upon her, who makes so many claims -upon the honor of men, to say “No,” if she means “No.” No one could -mistake that primary rule. When she said “Thursday,” was it not the last -assurance she could give before a final acceptance, and “You shall not -complain of me any more?” This is a consequence of the competitive -system in love which Mr. Ruskin evidently did not foresee, for Rosalind, -on the other hand, was right enough when she tried to assure herself -that she had not wished for his love, had not sought it in any way, that -she should be made responsible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_426" id="page_426"></a>{426}</span> for its discomfiture. Rivers employed -his time of suspense in making arrangements for his departure. He was a -proud man, and he would not have it said that he had left Aix hastily in -consequence of his disappointment. In the evening he wrote some letters, -vaguely announcing a speedy return. “Perhaps almost as soon as you -receive this,” he said, always guarding against the possibility of a -sudden departure; and then he said to himself that such a thing was -impossible. This was how he spent the intervening days. He had almost -forgotten by this time, in the intensity of personal feeling, the -disappointment and shock to his pride involved in the fact that the lady -of the garden had appeared no more.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, while all this was going on, Reginald was out on the -shining water in a boat, which was the first thing the English boy -turned to in that urgent necessity for “something to do” which is the -first thought of his mind. He had taken Sophy with him condescendingly -for want of a better, reflecting contemptuously all the time on the -desertion of that beggar Hamerton, with whom he was no longer the first -object. But Sophy was by no means without advantages as a companion. He -sculled her out half a mile from shore with the intention of teaching -her how to row on the way back; but Sophy had made herself more amusing -in another way by that time, and he was willing to do the work while she -maintained the conversation. Sophy was nearly as good as Scheherazade. -She kept up her narrative, or series of narratives, with scarcely a -pause to take breath, for she was very young and very long-winded, with -her lungs in perfect condition, and her stories had this advantage, to -the primitive intelligence that is, that they were all true; which is to -say that they were all about real persons, and spiced by that natural -inclination to take the worst view of everything, which, unfortunately, -is so often justified by the results, and makes a story-teller piquant, -popular, and detested. Sophy had a great future before her in this way, -and in the meantime she made Reginald acquainted with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_427" id="page_427"></a>{427}</span> everything, as -they both concluded, that he ought to know. She told him about Everard, -and the saving of Amy and Johnny, which he concluded to be a “plant,” -and “just like the fellow;” and about the encouragement Rosalind gave -him, at which Rex swore, to the horror, yet delight, of his little -sister, great, real oaths. And then the story quickened and the interest -rose as she told him about the apparitions, about what the children saw, -and, finally, under a vow of secrecy (which she had also administered to -Russell), what she herself saw, and the conclusion she had formed. When -she came to this point of her story, Reginald was too much excited even -to swear. He kept silence with a dark countenance, and listened, leaning -forward on his oars with a rapt attention that flattered Sophy. “I told -Uncle John,” cried the child, “and he asked me what I was going to do? -How could I do anything, Rex? I watched because I don’t believe in -ghosts, and I knew it could not be a ghost. But what could I do at my -age? And, besides, I did not actually see her so as to speak to her. I -only touched her as she passed.”</p> - -<p>“And you are sure it was—” The boy was older than Sophy, and understood -better. He could not speak so glibly of everything as she did.</p> - -<p>“Mamma? Yes, of course I am sure. I don’t take fits like the rest; I -always know what I see. Don’t you think Uncle John was the one to do -something about it, Rex? And he has not done anything. It could never be -thought that it was a thing for me.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, Sophy,” said Rex, almost losing his oars in his -vehemence; “soon it’ll have to be a thing for me. I can’t let things go -on like this with all Aunt Sophy’s muddlings and Uncle John’s. The -children will be driven out of their senses; and Rosalind is just a -romantic— I am the head of the family, and I shall have to interfere.”</p> - -<p>“But you are only seventeen,” said Sophy, her eyes starting from their -sockets with excitement and delight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_428" id="page_428"></a>{428}</span></p> - -<p>“But I am the head of the house. John Trevanion may give himself as many -airs as he likes, but he is only a younger son. After all, it is I that -have got to decide what’s right for my family. I have been thinking a -great deal about it,” he cried. “If—if—Mrs. Trevanion is to come like -this frightening people out of their wits—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Reginald,” cried Sophy, with a mixture of admiration and horror, -“how can you call mamma Mrs. Trevanion?”</p> - -<p>“That’s her name,” said the boy. His lips quivered a little, to do him -justice, and his face was darkly red with passion, which was scarcely -his fault, so unnatural were all the circumstances. “I am going to -insist that she should live somewhere, so that a fellow may say where -she lives. It’s awful when people ask you where’s your mother, not to be -able to say. I suppose she has enough to live on. I shall propose to let -her choose where she pleases, but to make her stay in one place, so that -she can be found when she is wanted. Amy could be sent to her for a bit, -and then the fuss would be over—”</p> - -<p>“But, Rex, you said we should lose all our money—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother!” cried the boy. “Who’s to say anything? Should I make a -trial and expose everything to take her money from Amy? (It isn’t so -very much you have, any of you, that I should mind.) I suppose even, if -I insisted, they might take a villa for her here or somewhere. And then -one could say she lived abroad for her health. That is what people do -every day. I know lots of fellows whose father, or their mother, or some -one, lives abroad for their health. It would be more respectable. It -would be a thing you could talk about when it was necessary,” Rex said.</p> - -<p>Sophy’s mind was scarcely yet open to this view of the question. “I wish -you had told me,” she said peevishly, “that one could get out of it like -that; for I should have liked to speak to mamma—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that we can get out of it like that. The law is very -funny; it may be impossible, perhaps. But, at all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_429" id="page_429"></a>{429}</span> events,” said -Reginald, recovering his oars, and giving one great impulse forward with -all his strength, which made the boat shoot along the lake like a living -thing, “I know that I won’t let it be muddled any longer if I can help -it, and that I am going to interfere.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVIII" id="CHAPTER_LVIII"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Roland Hamerton</span> did not find any trace of her. He had pledged himself -easily, in utter ignorance of all ways and means, to find her, knowing -nothing, neither how to set about such a search, or where he was likely -to meet with success in it. It is easy for a young man, in his fervor, -to declare that he is able to do anything for the girl he loves, and to -feel that in that inspiration he is sure to carry all before him. But -love will not trace the lost even when it is the agony of love for the -lost, and that passion of awful longing, anxiety, and fear which is, -perhaps, the most profound of all human emotions. The fact that he loved -Rosalind did not convert him into that sublimated and heroic version of -a detective officer which is to be found more often in fiction than -reality. He, too, went to all the hotels, as John Trevanion had done; he -walked about incessantly, looking at everybody he met, and trying hard, -in his bad French, to push cunning inquiries everywhere—inquiries which -he thought cunning, but which were in reality only very innocently -anxious, betraying his object in the plainest way. “A tall lady, -English, with remains of great beauty.” “Oui, monsieur, nous la -connaissons;” a dozen such lively responses were made to him, and he was -sent in consequence to wander about as many villas, to prowl in the -gardens of various hotels, rewarded by the sight of some fine -Englishwomen and some scarecrows, but never with the most distant -glimpse of the woman he sought. He did, however, meet and recognize -almost at every turn the young fellow whose appearances at Bonport had -been few since Rosalind’s repulse, but whom he had seen several<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_430" id="page_430"></a>{430}</span> times -in attendance upon Mrs. Lennox, and of whom he knew that he was -understood to have been seen in the village at Highcourt, presumably on -account of Rosalind, and was therefore a suitor too, and a rival. -Something indefinable in his air, though Roland did not know him -sufficiently to be a just judge, had increased at first the natural -sensation of angry scorn with which a young lover looks upon another man -who has presumed to lift his eyes to the same <i>objet adoré</i>; but -presently there arose in his mind something of that same sensation of -fellowship which had drawn him, on the first night of his arrival, -towards Rivers. They were in “the same box.” No doubt she was too good -for any of them, and Everard had not the sign and seal of the English -gentleman about him—the one thing indispensable; but yet there was a -certain brotherhood even in the rivalry. Roland addressed him at last -when he met him coming round one of the corners, where he himself was -posted, gazing blankly at an English lady pointed out to him by an -officious boatman from the lake. His gaze over a wall, his furtive -aspect when discovered, all required, he felt, explanation. “I think we -almost know each other,” he said, in a not unfriendly tone. Everard took -off his hat with the instinct of a man who has acquired such breeding as -he has in foreign countries, an action for which, as was natural, the -Englishman mildly despised him. “I have seen you, at least, often,” he -replied. And then Roland plunged into his subject.</p> - -<p>“Look here! You know the Trevanions, don’t you? Oh yes, I heard all -about it—the children and all that. I am a very old friend;” Roland -dwelt upon these words by way of showing that a stranger was altogether -out of competition with him in this respect at least. “There is a lady -in whom they are all—very much interested, to say the least, living -somewhere about here; but I don’t know where, and nobody seems to know. -You seem to be very well up to all the ways of the place; perhaps you -could help me. Ros— I mean,” said Roland, with a cough to obliterate the -syllable—“they would all be very grateful to any one who would find<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_431" id="page_431"></a>{431}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“What,” said Everard, slowly, looking in Roland’s face, “is the lady’s -name?”</p> - -<p>It was the most natural question; and yet the one man put it with a -depth of significance which to a keener observer than Roland would have -proved his previous knowledge; while the other stood entirely -disconcerted, and not knowing how to reply. It was perfectly natural; -but somehow he had not thought of it as a probable question. And he was -not prepared with an answer.</p> - -<p>“Oh—ah—her name. Well, she is a kind of a relation, you know—and her -name would be—Trevanion.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, her name would be Trevanion? Is there supposed to be any chance -that she would change her name?”</p> - -<p>“Why do you ask such a question?”</p> - -<p>“I thought, by the way you spoke, as if there might be a doubt.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Roland, after a moment, “I never thought— I don’t think it’s -likely. Why should she change her name?”</p> - -<p>Everard answered with great softness, “I don’t know anything about it. -Something in your tone suggested the idea, but no doubt I am wrong. No, -I cannot say, all in a moment, that I am acquainted—” Here his want of -experience told like Roland’s. He was very willing, nay anxious, to -deceive, but did not know how. He colored, and made a momentary pause. -“But I will inquire,” he said, “if it is a thing that the—Trevanions -want to find out.”</p> - -<p>Roland looked at him with instinctive suspicion, but he did not know -what he suspected. He had no desire, however, to put this quest out of -his own hands into those of a man who might make capital of it as he -himself intended to do. He said hastily, “Oh, I don’t want to put you to -trouble. I think I am on the scent. If you hear anything, however, and -would come in and see me at the hotel—to-night.”</p> - -<p>The other looked at him with something in his face which Roland did not -understand. Was it a kind of sardonic smile?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_432" id="page_432"></a>{432}</span> Was it offence? He ended -by repeating, “I will inquire,” and took off his hat again in that -Frenchified way.</p> - -<p>And Roland went on, unaided, somewhat discouraged, indeed, with his -inquiries. Sometimes he saw in the distance a figure in the crowd which -he thought he recognized, and hurried after it, but never with any -success. For either it was gone when he reached the spot, or turned out -to be one of the ordinary people about; for of course there were many -tall ladies wearing black to be seen about the streets of Aix, and most -of them English. He trudged about all that day and the next with a heavy -heart, his high hopes abandoning him, and the search seeming hopeless. -He became aware when night fell that he was not alone in his quest. -There drifted past him at intervals, hurried, flushed, and breathless, -with her cloak hanging from her shoulders, her bonnet blown back from -her head, her eyes always far in front of her, investigating every -corner, a woman so instinct with keen suspicion and what looked like a -thirst for blood that she attracted the looks even of the careless -passers-by, and was followed, till she outstripped him, by more than one -languid gendarme. Her purpose was so much more individual than she was -that, for a time, in the features of this human sleuth-hound he failed -to recognize Russell. But it was Russell, as he soon saw, with a mixture -of alarm and horror. It seemed to him that some tragic force of harm was -in this woman’s hand, and that while he wandered vaguely round and round -discovering nothing, she, grim with hatred and revenge, was on the -track.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIX" id="CHAPTER_LIX"></a>CHAPTER LIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> John Trevanion questioned Everard, as already recorded, the young -man, though greatly disconcerted, had made him a very unexpected reply. -He had the boldness to say what was so near the truth that there was all -the assurance of conviction in his tone; and John, on his side, was -confounded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_433" id="page_433"></a>{433}</span> Everard had declared to him that there was a family -connection, a relationship, between himself and Mr. Trevanion, though, -on being more closely questioned, he declined to explain how it was; -that is, he postponed the explanation, saying that he could only make -the matter clear by reference to another relation, who could give him -the exact information. It was a bold thought, conceived at the moment, -and carried through with the daring of desperation. He felt, before it -was half said, that John Trevanion was impressed by the reality in his -tone, and that if he dared further, and told all his tale, the position -of affairs might be changed. But Rosalind’s reply to the sudden -declaration which in his boldness he had made, and to his vague, -ill-advised promises to reward her if she would listen to him, had -driven for some days everything out of his mind; and when he met Roland -Hamerton he was but beginning to recall his courage, and to say to -himself that there was still something which might be done, and that -things were not perhaps so hopeless as they seemed. From that brief -interview he went away full of a sudden resolution. If, after all, this -card was the one to play, did not he hold it in his hand? If it were by -means of the lost mother that Rosalind was to be won, it was by the same -means alone that he could prove to John Trevanion, all he had promised -to prove, and thus set himself right with Rosalind’s guardian. Thoughts -crowded fast upon him as he turned away, instinctively making a round to -escape Hamerton’s scrutiny. This led him back at length to the precincts -of the hotel, where he plunged among the shrubbery, passing round behind -the house, and entered by a small door which was almost hid by a clump -of laurels. A short stair led from this to a small, entirely secluded -apartment separated from the other part of the hotel. The room which -young Everard entered with a sort of authoritative familiarity was well -lighted with three large windows opening upon the garden, but seemed to -be a sort of receptacle for all the old furniture despised elsewhere. It -had but one occupant, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_434" id="page_434"></a>{434}</span> put down the book when Everard came in, and -looked up with a faint, inquiring smile. The reader does not need to be -told who was the banished woman who sat here, shut out and separated -from the external world. She had thought it wise, amid the risks of -travel, to call herself by the name he bore, and had been living here, -as everywhere, in complete retirement, before the arrival of the -Trevanions. The apartment which she occupied was cheap and quiet, one of -which recommendations was of weight with her in consequence of Edmund’s -expenses; the other for reasons of her own. She had changed greatly in -the course of these two years, not only by becoming very thin and worn, -but also from a kind of moral exhaustion which had taken the place of -that personal power and dignity which were once the prevailing -expression of her face. She had borne much in the former part of her -life without having the life itself crushed out of her; but her complete -transference to a strange world, her absorption in one sole subject of -interest which presented nothing noble, nothing elevated, and, finally, -the existence of a perpetual petty conflict in which she was always the -loser, a struggle to make a small nature into a great one, or, rather, -to deal with the small nature as if it were a great one, to attribute to -it finer motives than it could even understand, and to appeal with -incessant failure to generosities which did not exist—this had taken -the strength out of Mrs. Trevanion. Her face had an air of exhausted and -hopeless effort. She saw the young man approaching with a smile, which, -though faint, was yet one of welcome. To be ready to receive him -whenever he should appear, to be always ready and on the watch for any -gleam of higher meaning, to be dull to no better impulse, but always -waiting for the good—that was the part she had to play. But she was no -longer impatient, no longer eager to thrust him into her own world, to -convey to him her own thoughts. That she knew was an endeavor without -hope. And, as a matter of fact, she had little hope in anything. She had -done all that she knew how to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_435" id="page_435"></a>{435}</span> If anything further were possible she -was unaware what it was; and her face, like her heart, was worn out. Yet -she looked up with what was not unlike a cheerful expectation. “Well, -Edmund?” she said.</p> - -<p>He threw down his hat on the table, giving emphasis to what he said.</p> - -<p>“I have brought you some news. I don’t know if you will like it or not, -or if it will be a surprise. The Trevanions are after you.”</p> - -<p>The smile faded away from her face, but seemed to linger pathetically in -her eyes as she looked at him and repeated, “After me!” with a start.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Of course all those visits and apparitions couldn’t be without -effect. You must have known that; and you can’t say I did not warn you. -They are moving heaven and earth—”</p> - -<p>“How can they do that?” she asked; and then, “You reproach me justly, -Edmund; not so much as I reproach myself. I was made to do it, and -frighten—my poor children.”</p> - -<p>“More than that,” he said, as if he took a pleasure in adding color to -the picture; “the little girl has gone all wrong in her head. She walks -in her sleep and says she is looking for her mother.”</p> - -<p>The tears sprang to Mrs. Trevanion’s eyes. “Oh, Edmund!” she said, “you -wring my heart; and yet it is sweet! My little girl! she does not forget -me!”</p> - -<p>“Children don’t forget,” he said gloomily. “I didn’t. I cried for you -often enough, but you never came to me.”</p> - -<p>She gave him once more a piteous look, to which the tears in her eyes -added pathos. “Not—till it was too late,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Not—till you were obliged; till you had no one else to go to,” said -he. “And you have not done very much for me since—nothing that you -could help. Look here! You can make up for that now, if you like; -there’s every opportunity now.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Edmund?” She relapsed into the chair, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_436" id="page_436"></a>{436}</span> supplied a -sort of framework on which mind and body seemed alike to rest.</p> - -<p>Edmund drew a chair opposite to her, close to her, and threw himself -down in it. His hand raised to enhance his rhetoric was almost like the -threat of a blow.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” he repeated; “I have told you before all I feel about -Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>“And I have told you,” she said, with a faint, rising color, “that you -have no right to call her by that name. There is no sort of link between -Miss Trevanion and you.”</p> - -<p>“She does not think so,” he answered, growing red. “She has always felt -there was a link, although she didn’t know what. There are two other -fellows after her now. I know that one of them, and I rather think both -of them, are hunting for you, by way of getting a hold on Rosalind. One -of them asked me just now if I wouldn’t help him. Me! And that woman -that was nurse at Highcourt, that began all the mischief, is here. So -you will be hunted out whatever you do. And John Trevanion is at me, -asking me what had I to do with his brother? I don’t know how he knows, -but he does know. I’ve told him there was a family connection, but that -I couldn’t say what till I had consulted—”</p> - -<p>“You said <i>that</i>, Edmund? A—family connection!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I did. What else could I say? And isn’t it true? Now, here are two -things you can do: one would be kind, generous, all that I don’t expect -from you; the other would, at least, leave us to fight fair. Look here! -I believe they would be quite glad. It would be a way of smoothing up -everything and stopping all sorts of scandal. Come up there with me -straight and tell them who I am; and tell Rosalind that you want her to -cast off the others and marry me. She will do whatever you tell her.”</p> - -<p>“Never, never, Edmund.” She had begun to shake her head, looking at him, -for some time before he would permit her voice to be heard. “Oh, ask me -anything but that!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_437" id="page_437"></a>{437}</span></p> - -<p>“Anything but the only thing,” he said; “that is like you; that is -always the way. Can’t you see it would be a way of smoothing over -everything? It would free Rosalind—it would free them all; if she were -my—”</p> - -<p>She put out her hand to stop him. “No, Edmund, you must not say it. I -cannot permit it. That cannot be. You do not understand her, nor she -you. I can never permit it, even if—even if—”</p> - -<p>“Even if—? You mean to say if she were—fond of me—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion uttered a low cry. “Edmund, I will rather go and tell -her, what I have told you—that you could never understand each -other—that you are different, wholly different—that nothing of the -kind could be—”</p> - -<p>He glared at her with a fierce rage, by which she was no longer -frightened, which she had seen before, but which produced in her -overwrought mind a flutter of the old, sickening misery which had fallen -into so hopeless a calm. “That is what you will do for me—when affairs -come to an issue!—that is all after everything you have promised, -everything you have said—that is all; but I might have known—”</p> - -<p>She made no reply. She was so subdued in her nature by all the hopeless -struggles of the past that she did not say a word in self-defence.</p> - -<p>“Then,” he said, rising up from his chair, throwing out his hands as -though putting her out of her place, “go! That’s the only other thing -you can do for me. Get out of this. Why stay till they come and drag you -out to the light and expose you—and me? If you won’t do the one thing -for me, do the other, and make no more mischief, for the love of -heaven—if you care for heaven or for love either,” he added, making a -stride towards the table and seizing his hat again. He did not, however, -rush away then, as seemed his first intention, but stood for a moment -irresolute, not looking at her, holding his hat in his hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_438" id="page_438"></a>{438}</span></p> - -<p>“Edmund,” she said, “you are always sorry afterwards when you say such -things to me.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “I’m not sorry—don’t flatter yourself— I mean every word -I say. You’ve been my worst enemy all my life. And since you’ve been -with me it’s been worst of all. You’ve made me your slave; you’ve -pretended to make a gentleman of me, and you’ve made me a slave. I have -never had my own way or my fling, but had to drag about with you. And -now, when you really could do me good—when you could help me to marry -the girl I like, and reform, and everything, you won’t. You tell me -point-blank you won’t. You say you’ll rather ruin me than help me. Do -you call that the sort of a thing a man has a right to expect—after all -I have suffered in the past?”</p> - -<p>“Edmund, I have always told you that Miss Trevanion—”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind!” he said. “Whatever you choose to call her, I shall call her -by her name. I have been everything with them till now, when this friend -of yours, this Uncle John, has come. And you can put it all right with -him, if you please, in a moment, and make my way clear. And now you say -you won’t! Oh, yes, I know you well enough. Let all those little things -go crazy and everybody be put out, rather than lend a real helping hand -to me—”</p> - -<p>“Edmund!” she called to him, holding out her hands as he rushed to the -door; but he felt he had got a little advantage and would not risk the -loss of it again. He turned round for a moment and addressed her with a -sort of solemnity.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow!” he said. “I’ll give you till to-morrow to think it over, -and then— I’ll do for myself whatever I find it best to do.”</p> - -<p>For a minute or two after the closing of the door, which was noisy and -sharp, there was no further movement in the dim room. Mrs. Trevanion sat -motionless, even from thought. The framework of the chair supported her, -held her up, but for the moment, as it seemed to her, nothing else in -earth and heaven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_439" id="page_439"></a>{439}</span> She sat entirely silent, passive, as she had done so -often during these years, all her former habits of mind arrested. Once -she had been a woman of energy, to whom a defeat or discouragement was -but a new beginning, whose resources were manifold; but all these had -been exhausted. She sat in the torpor of that hopelessness which had -become habitual to her, life failing and everything in life. As she sat -thus an inner door opened, and another figure, which had grown strangely -like her own in the close and continual intercourse between them, came -in softly. Jane was noiseless as her mistress, almost as worn as her -mistress, moving like a shadow across the room. Her presence made a -change in the motionless atmosphere. Madam was no longer alone; and with -the softening touch of that devotion which had accompanied all her -wanderings for so great a portion of her life, there arose in her a -certain re-awakening, a faint flowing of the old vitality. There were, -indeed, many reasons why the ice should be broken and the stream resume -its flowing. She raised herself a little in her chair, and then she -spoke. “Jane,” she said; “Jane, I have news of the children—”</p> - -<p>“God bless them,” said Jane. She put the books down out of her hands, -which she had been pretending to arrange, and turned her face towards -her mistress, who said “Amen!” with a sudden gleam and lighting-up of -her pale face like the sky after a storm.</p> - -<p>“I have done very wrong,” said Mrs. Trevanion; “there is never -self-indulgence in the world but some one suffers for it. Jane, my -little Amy is ill. She dreams about her poor mother. She has taken to -walking in her sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Madam, that’s no great harm. I have heard of many children who -did—”</p> - -<p>“But not through—oh, such selfish folly as mine! I have grown so weak, -such a fool! And they have sent for Russell, and Russell is here. You -may meet her any day—”</p> - -<p>“Russell!” Jane said, with an air of dismay, clasping her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_440" id="page_440"></a>{440}</span> hands; “then, -Madam, you must make up your mind what you will do, for Russell is not -one to be balked. She will find us out.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I fear to be found out?” said Mrs. Trevanion, with a faint -smile. “No one now can harm me. Jane, everything has been done that can -be done to us. I do not fear Russell or any one. And sometimes it seems -to me that I have been wrong all along. I think now I have made up my -mind—”</p> - -<p>“To what? oh, to what, Madam?” Jane cried.</p> - -<p>“I am not well,” said Mrs. Trevanion; “I am only a shadow of myself. I -am not at all sure but perhaps I may be going to die. No, no— I have no -presentiments, Jane. It is only people who want to live who have -presentiments, and life has few charms for me. But look at me; you can -see through my hands almost. I am dreadfully tired coming up those -stairs. I should not be surprised if I were to die.”</p> - -<p>She said this apologetically, as if she were putting forth a plea to -which perhaps objections might be made.</p> - -<p>“You have come through a deal, Madam,” said Jane, with the -matter-of-fact tone of her class. “It is no wonder if you are thin; you -have had a great deal of anxiety. But trouble doesn’t kill.”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” said her mistress, with a smile, “in the long run. But I -don’t say I am sure. Only, if that were so—there would be no need to -deny myself.”</p> - -<p>“You will send for the children and Miss Rosalind.” Jane clasped her -hands with a cry of anticipation in which her whole heart went forth.</p> - -<p>“That would be worth dying for,” said Madam, “to have them all peaceably -for perhaps a day or two. Ah! but I would need to be very bad before we -could do that; and I am not ill, not that I know. I have thought of -something else, Jane. It appears that they have found out, or think they -have found out, that I am here. I cannot just steal away again as I did -before. I will go to them and see them all. Ah, don’t look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_441" id="page_441"></a>{441}</span> so pleased; -that probably means that we shall have to leave afterwards at once. -Unless things were to happen so well, you know,” she said, with a smile, -“as that I should just really—die there; which would be ideal—but -therefore not to be hoped for.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam,” said Jane, with a sob, “you don’t think, when you say -that—”</p> - -<p>“Of you, my old friend? But I do. You would be glad to think, after a -while, that I had got over it all. And what could happen better to me -than that I should die among my own? I am of little use to Edmund—far -less than I hoped. Perhaps I had no right to hope. One cannot give up -one’s duties for years, and then take them back again. God forgive me -for leaving him, and him for all the faults that better training might -have saved him from. All the tragedy began in that, and ends in that. I -did wrong, and the issue is—this.”</p> - -<p>“So long ago, Madam—so long ago. And it all seemed so simple.”</p> - -<p>“To give up my child for his good, and then to be forced to give up my -other children, not for their good or mine? I sometimes wonder how it -was that I never told John Trevanion, who was always my friend. Why did -I leave Highcourt so, without a word to any one? It all seems confused -now, as if I might have done better. I might have cleared myself, at -least; I might have told them. I should like to give myself one great -indulgence, Jane, before I die.”</p> - -<p>“Madam!” Jane cried, with a panic which her words belied, “I am sure -that it is only fancy; you are not going to die.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said her mistress; “I am not sure at all. I told you so; but -only I should not be surprised. Whether it is death or whether it is -life, something new is coming. We must be ghosts no longer; we must come -back to our real selves, you and I, Jane. We will not let ourselves be -hunted down, but come out in the eye of day. It would be strange if -Russell had the power to frighten me. And did I tell you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_442" id="page_442"></a>{442}</span> that Reginald -is here, too, and young Roland Hamerton, who was at Highcourt that -night? They are all gathered together again for the end of the tragedy, -Jane.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam,” cried Jane, “perhaps for setting it all right.”</p> - -<p>Her mistress smiled somewhat dreamily. “I do not see how that can be. -And, even if it were so, it will not change the state of affairs. But we -are not going to allow ourselves to be found out by Russell,” she added, -with a curious sense of the ludicrous. The occasion was not gay, and yet -there was something natural, almost a sound of amusement, in the laugh -with which she spoke. Jane looked at her wistfully, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“When I think of all that you have gone through, and that you can laugh -still!—but perhaps it is better than crying,” Jane said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion nodded her head in assent, and there was silence in the -dim room where these two women spent their lives. It gave her a certain -pleasure to see Jane moving about. There was a sort of lull of painful -sensation, a calm, and disinclination for any exertion on her own part; -a mood in which it was grateful to see another entirely occupied with -her wants; anxious only to invent more wants for her, and means of doing -her service. In the languor of this quiet it was not wonderful that Mrs. -Trevanion should feel her life ebbing away. She began to look forward to -the end of the tragedy with a pleased acquiescence. She had yielded to -her fate at first, understanding it to be hopeless to strive against it; -with, perhaps, a recoil from actual contact with the scandal and the -shame which was as much pride as submission; but at that time her -strength was not abated, nor any habit of living lost. Now that period -of anguish seemed far off, and she judged herself and her actions not -without a great pity and understanding, but yet not without some -disapproval. She thought over it all as she sat lying back in the great -chair, with Jane moving softly about. She would not repeat the decisive -and hasty step she had once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_443" id="page_443"></a>{443}</span> taken. She could not now, alas, believe in -the atonement which she then thought might still be practicable in -respect to the son whom she had given up in his childhood; nor did she -think that it was well, as she had done then, to abandon everything -without a word—to leave her reputation at the mercy of every -evil-speaker. To say nothing for herself, to leave her dead husband’s -memory unassailed by any defence she could put forth, and to cut short -the anguish of parting, for her children as well as for herself, had -then seemed to her the best. And she had fondly thought, with what she -now called vanity and the delusion of self-regard, that, by devoting -herself to him who was the cause of all her troubles, she might make up -for the evils which her desertion of him had inflicted. These were -mistakes, she recognized now, and must not be repeated. “I was a fool,” -she said to herself softly, with a realization of the misery of the past -which was acute, yet dim, as if the sufferer had been another person. -Jane paused at the sound of her voice, and came towards her—“Madam, did -you speak?”</p> - -<p>“No, except to myself. My faithful Jane, you have suffered everything -with me. We are not going to hide ourselves any longer,” she replied.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LX" id="CHAPTER_LX"></a>CHAPTER LX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">A resolution</span> thus taken is not, however, strong enough to overcome the -habits which have grown with years. Mrs. Trevanion had been so long in -the background that she shrank from the idea of presenting herself again -to what seemed to her the view of the world. She postponed all further -steps with a conscious cowardice, at which, with faint humor, she was -still able to smile.</p> - -<p>“We are two owls,” she said. “Jane, we will make a little reconnaissance -first in the evening. There is still a moon, though it is a little late, -and the lake in the moonlight is a fine sight.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_444" id="page_444"></a>{444}</span></p> - -<p>“But, Madam, you were not thinking of the lake,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“No,” her mistress said; “the sight of a roof and four walls within -which are—that is more to you and me than the most beautiful scenery in -the world. And to think for how many years I had nothing to do but to -walk from my room to the nursery to see them all!”</p> - -<p>Jane shook her head with silent sympathy. “And it will be so again,” she -said, soothingly, “when Mr. Rex is of age. I have always said to myself -it would come right then.”</p> - -<p>It was now Madam’s turn to shake her head. The smile died away from her -face. “I would rather not,” she said, hurriedly, “put him to that proof. -It would be a terrible test to put a young creature to. Oh, no, no, -Jane! If he failed, how could I bear it?—or did for duty what should be -done for love? No, no; the boy must not be put to such a test.”</p> - -<p>In the evening she carried out her idea of making a reconnaissance. She -set out when the moon was rising in a vaporous autumnal sky, clearing -slowly as the light increased. Madam threw back the heavy veil which she -usually wore, and breathed in the keen, sweet air with almost a pang of -pleasure. She grasped Jane’s arm as they drove slowly round the tufted -mound upon which the house of Bonport stood; then, as the coachman -paused for further instructions in the shade of a little eminence on the -farther side, she whispered breathlessly that she would walk a little -way, and see it nearer. They got out, accordingly, both mistress and -maid, tremulous with excitement. All was so still; not a creature about; -the lighted windows shining among the trees; there seemed no harm in -venturing within the gate, which was open, in ascending the slope a -little way. Mrs. Trevanion had begun to say faintly, half to herself, -half to her companion, “This is vanity; it is no use,” when, suddenly, -her grasp upon Jane’s arm tightened so that the faithful maid had to -make an effort not to cry out. “What is that?” she said, in a shrill -whisper, at Jane’s ear. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_445" id="page_445"></a>{445}</span> nothing more than a little speck, but it -moved along under the edge of the overhanging trees, with evident life -in it; a speck which, as it emerged into the moonlight, became of a -dazzling whiteness, like a pale flame gliding across the solid darkness. -They both stood still for a moment in awe and wonder, clinging to each -other. Then Madam forsook her maid’s arm, and went forward with a swift -and noiseless step very different from her former lingering. Jane -followed, breathless, afraid, not capable of the same speed. No doubt -had been in Mrs. Trevanion’s mind from the first. The night air lifted -now and then a lock of the child’s hair, and blew cold through her long, -white night-dress, but she went on steadily towards the side of the -lake. Once more Amy was absorbed in her dream that her mother was -waiting for her there; and, and unconscious, wrapped in her sleep, had -set out to find the one great thing wanting in her life. The mother -followed her, conscious of nothing save a great throbbing of head and -heart. Thus they went on till the white breadth of the lake, flooded -with moonlight, lay before them. Then, for the first time, Amy wavered. -She came to a pause; something disturbed the absorption of her state, -but without awaking her. “Mamma,” she said, “where are you, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“I am here, my darling.” Mrs. Trevanion’s voice was choked, and scarcely -audible, in the strange mystery of this encounter. She dared not clasp -her child in her arms, but stood trembling, watching every indication, -terrified to disturb the illusion, yet hungering for the touch of the -little creature who was her own. Amy’s little face showed no surprise, -its lines softened with a smile of pleasure; she put out her cold hand -and placed it in that which trembled to receive it. It was no wonder to -Amy, in her dream, to put her hand into her mother’s. She gave herself -up to this beloved guidance without any surprise or doubt, and obeyed -the impulse given her without the least resistance, with a smile of -heavenly satisfaction on her face. All Amy’s troubles were over when her -hand was in her mother’s hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_446" id="page_446"></a>{446}</span> Nor was her little soul, in its soft -confusion and unconsciousness, aware of any previous separation, or any -transport of reunion. She went where her mother led, calm as if that -mother had never been parted from her. As for Mrs. Trevanion, the tumult -of trouble and joy in her soul is impossible to describe. She made an -imperative gesture to Jane, who had come panting after her, and now -stood half stupefied in the way, only prevented by that stupor of -astonishment from bursting out into sobs and cries. Her mistress could -not speak; her face was not visible in the shadow as she turned her back -upon the lake which revealed this wonderful group fully against its -shining background. There was no sound audible but the faint stir of the -leaves, the plash of the water, the cadence of her quick breathing. Jane -followed in an excitement almost as overpowering. There was not a word -said. Mrs. Trevanion turned back and made her way through the trees, -along the winding path, with not a pause or mistake. It was dark among -the bushes, but she divined the way, and though both strength and breath -would have failed her in other circumstances, there was no sign of -faltering now. The little terrace in front of the house, to which they -reached at last, was brilliant with moonlight. And here she paused, the -child standing still in perfect calm, having resigned her very soul into -her mother’s hands.</p> - -<p>Then, for the first time, a great fainting and trembling seized upon -her. She held out her disengaged hand to Jane. “What am I to do?” she -said, with an appeal to which Jane, trembling, could give no reply. The -closed doors, the curtained windows, were all dark. A momentary struggle -rose in Mrs. Trevanion’s mind, a wild impulse to carry the child away, -to take her into her bosom, to claim her natural rights, if never again, -yet for this night—mingled with a terror that seemed to take her senses -from her, lest the door should suddenly open, and she be discovered. Her -strength forsook her when she most wanted it. Amy stood still by her -side, without a movement, calm, satisfied, wrapped in unconsciousness, -knowing nothing save that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_447" id="page_447"></a>{447}</span> had attained her desire, feeling neither -cold nor fear in the depth of her dream.</p> - -<p>“Madam,” said Jane, in an anxious whisper, “the child will catch her -death. I’d have carried her. She has nothing on but her nightdress. She -will catch her death.”</p> - -<p>This roused the mother in a moment, with the simplest but most profound -of arguments. She bade Jane knock at the door, and, stooping over Amy, -kissed her and blessed her. Then she transferred the little hand in hers -to that of her faithful maid. A shiver passed through the child’s frame, -but she permitted herself to be led to the door. Jane was not so -self-restrained as her mistress. She lifted the little girl in her arms -and began to chafe and rub her feet. The touch, though was warm and -kind, woke the little somnambulist, as the touch of the cold water had -done before. She gave a scream and struggled out of Jane’s arms.</p> - -<p>And then there was a great sound of movement and alarm from the house. -The door was flung open and Rosalind rushed out and seized Amy in her -arms. She was followed by half the household, the servants hurrying out -one after another; and there arose a hurried tumult of questions in the -midst of which Jane stole away unnoticed and escaped among the bushes, -like her mistress. Mrs. Trevanion stood quite still supporting herself -against a tree while all this confused commotion went on. She -distinguished Russell, who came out and looked so sharply about among -the dark shrubs that for a moment she felt herself discovered, and John -Trevanion, who appeared with a candle in his hand, lifting it high above -his head, and inquiring who it was that had brought the child back. -John’s face was anxious and full of trouble; and behind him came a tall -boy, slight and fair, who said there was nobody, and that Amy must have -come back by herself. Then Mrs. Lennox came out with a shawl over her -head, the flickering lights showing her full, comfortable person—“Who -is it, John? Is there anybody? Oh, come in then, come in; it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_448" id="page_448"></a>{448}</span> a cold -night, and the child must be put to bed.” All of them stood about in -their individuality, as she had left them, while she looked on in the -darkness under the rustling boughs, invisible, her eyes sometimes -blurred with moisture, a smile growing about her mouth. They had not -changed, except the boy—her boy! She kept her eyes on his face, through -the thick shade of the leaves and the flickering of the candles. He was -almost a man, God bless him—a slight mustache on his upper lip, his -hair darker—and so tall, like the best of the Trevanions— God bless -him! But no, no, he must not be put to that test—never to that test. -She would not permit it, she said to herself, with a horrible sensation -in her heart, which she did not put into words, that he could not bear -it. She did not seem able to move from the support of her tree even -after the door was closed and all was silent again. Jane, in alarm, -groped about the bushes till she had found her mistress, but did not -succeed in leading her away. “A little longer,” she said, faintly. After -a while a large window on the other side of the door opened and John -Trevanion came out again into the moonlight, walking up and down on the -terrace with a very troubled face. By and by another figure appeared, -and Rosalind joined him. “I came to tell you she is quite composed -now—going to sleep again,” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, something is -going to happen; it is coming nearer and nearer. I am sure that, either -living or dead, Amy has seen mamma.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, all these agitations are too much for you,” said John -Trevanion. “I think I must take you away.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, it is not agitation. I was not agitated to-night; I was -quite at ease, thinking about—oh, thinking about very different things; -I am ashamed of myself when I remember how little I was thinking. -Russell is right, and I was to blame.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I believe there is a safeguard against bodily ailments in that -condition. We must look after her better again.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_449" id="page_449"></a>{449}</span></p> - -<p>“But she has seen mamma, Uncle John!”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, you are so full of sense—”</p> - -<p>“What has sense to do with it?” she cried. “Do you think the child came -back by herself? And yet there was no one with her—no one. Who else -could have led her back? Mamma took away her hand and she awoke. Uncle -John, none of you can find her; but if she is not dead—and you say she -is not dead—my mother must be here.”</p> - -<p>Jane had dropped upon her knees, and was keeping down by force, with her -face pressed against her mistress’s dress, her sobs and tears. But Mrs. -Trevanion clung to her tree and listened and made no sound. There was a -smile upon her face of pleasure that was heartrending, more pitiful than -pain.</p> - -<p>“My dear Rosalind,” said John, in great distress, “my dearest girl! I -have told you she is not dead. And if she is here we shall find her. We -are certain to find her. Rosalind, if <i>she</i> were here, what would she -say to you? Not to agitate and excite yourself, to try to be calm, to -wait. My dear,” he said, with a tremble in his voice, “your mother would -never wish to disturb your life; she would like you to be—happy; she -would like you—you know—your mother—”</p> - -<p>It appeared that he became incoherent, and could say no more.</p> - -<p>The house was closed again and all quiet before Jane, who had been in -despair, could lead Mrs. Trevanion away. She yielded at length from -weakness; but she did not hear what her faithful servant said to her. -Her mind had fallen, or rather risen, into a state of semi-conscious -exaltation, like the ecstasy of an ascetic, as her delicate and fragile -form grew numb and powerless in the damp and cold.</p> - -<p>“Did you think any one could stand and hear all that and never make a -sign?” she said. “Did you see her face, Jane? It was like an angel’s. I -think that must be her window with the light in it. And he said her -mother— John was always my friend. He said her mother— Where do you -want<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_450" id="page_450"></a>{450}</span> me to go? I should like to stay in the porch and die there -comfortably, Jane. It would be sweet; and then there could be no more -quarrelling or questions, or putting any one to the test. No test! no -test! But dying there would be so easy. And Sophy Lennox would never -forbid it. She would take me in, and lay me on her bed, and bury -me—like a good woman. I am not unworthy of it. I am not a bad woman, -Jane.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Madam,” Jane cried, distracted, “do you know the carriage is -waiting all this time? And the people of the hotel will be frightened. -Come back, for goodness sake, come back!”</p> - -<p>“The carriage,” she said, with a wondering air. “Is it the Highcourt -carriage, and are we going home?”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXI" id="CHAPTER_LXI"></a>CHAPTER LXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> day had come which Rosalind had looked forward to as the decisive -moment. The day on which her life of submission was to be over, her -independent action to begin. But to Rivers it was a day of almost -greater import, the day on which he was to know, so far as she was -concerned, what people call his fate. It was about noon when he set out -from Aix, at a white heat of excitement, to know what was in store for -him. He walked, scarcely conscious what he trod on, along the -commonplace road; everything appeared to him as through a mist. His -whole being was so absorbed in what was about to happen that at last his -mind began to revolt against it. To put this power into the hands of a -girl—a creature without experience or knowledge, though with all the -charms which his heart recognized; to think that she, not much more than -a child in comparison with himself, should thus have his fate in her -hands, and keep his whole soul in suspense, and be able to determine -even the tenor of his life. It was monstrous, it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_451" id="page_451"></a>{451}</span> ridiculous, yet -true. If he left Bonport accepted, his whole career would be altered; if -not— There was a nervous tremor in him, a quiver of disquietude, which -he was not able conquer. To talk of women as wanting votes or freedom, -when they had in their hands such unreasonable, such ridiculous, and -monstrous power as this! His mind revolted though his heart obeyed. She -would not, it was possible, be herself aware of the full importance of -the decision she was about to make; and yet upon that decision his whole -existence would turn. A great deal has been said about the subduing -power of love, yet it was maddening to think that thus, in spite of -reason and every dictate of good sense, the life of a man of high -intelligence and mature mind should be at the disposal of a girl. Even -while he submitted to that fate he felt in his soul the revolt against -it. To young Roland it was natural and beautiful that it should be so, -but to Rivers it was not beautiful at all; it was an inconceivable -weakness in human nature—a thing scarcely credible when you came to -think of it. And yet, unreasonable as it was, he could not free himself -or assert his own independence. He was almost glad of this indignant -sentiment as he hurried along to know his fate. When he reached the -terrace which surrounded the house, looking back before he entered, he -saw young Everard coming in at the gate below with an enormous bouquet -in his hand. What were the flowers for? Did the fool mean to propitiate -her with flowers? or had he—good heavens! was it possible to conceive -that he had acquired a right to bring presents to Rosalind? This idea -seemed to fill his veins with fire. The next moment he had entered into -the calm of the house, which, so far as external appearances went, was -so orderly, so quiet, thrilled by no excitement. He could have borne -noise and confusion better. The stillness seemed to take away his -breath.</p> - -<p>And in another minute Rosalind was standing before him. She came so -quickly that she must have been looking for him. There was an alarmed -look in her eyes, and she, too, seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_452" id="page_452"></a>{452}</span> breathless, as if her heart were -beating more quickly than usual. Her lips were apart, as if already in -her mind she had begun to speak, not waiting for any question from him. -All this meant, must mean, a participation in his excitement. What was -she going to say to him? It was in the drawing-room, the common -sitting-room, with its windows open to the terrace, whence any one -wandering about looking at the view, as every fool did, might step in at -any moment and interrupt the conference. All this he was conscious of -instantaneously, finding material in it both for the wild hope and the -fierce despite which had been raging in him all the morning—to think -not only that his fate was in this girl’s hands, but that any vulgar -interruption, any impertinent caller, might interfere! And yet what did -that matter if all was to go well?</p> - -<p>“Mr. Rivers,” Rosalind said at once, with an eagerness which was full of -agitation, “I have asked you to come—to tell you I am afraid you will -be angry. I almost think you have reason to be angry. I want to tell -you; it has not been my fault.”</p> - -<p>He felt himself drop down from vague, sunlit heights of expectation, -down, down, to the end of all things, to cold and outer darkness, and -looked at her blankly in the sternness and paleness of a disappointment -all the greater that he had said to himself he was prepared for the -worst. He had hoped to cheat fate by arming himself with that -conviction; but it did not stand him in much stead. It was all he could -do to speak steadily, to keep down the impulse of rising rage. “This -beginning,” he said, “Miss Trevanion, does not seem very favorable.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Rivers! If I give you pain I hope you will forgive me. Perhaps -I have been thoughtless— I have so much to think of, so much that has -made me unhappy—and now it has all come to a crisis.”</p> - -<p>Rivers felt that the smile with which he tried to receive this, and -reply to her deprecating, anxious looks, was more like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_453" id="page_453"></a>{453}</span> scowl than a -smile. “If this is so,” he said, “I could not hope that my small affair -should dwell in your mind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not say so. If I have been thoughtless it is not—it is not,” -cried Rosalind, contradicting herself in her haste, “for want of -thought. And when I tell you I have made up my mind, that is scarcely -what I mean. It is rather that one thing has taken possession of me, -that I cannot help myself. If you will let me tell you—”</p> - -<p>“Tell me that you have resolved to make another man happy and not me? -That is very gracious, condescending,” he cried, scarcely able to keep -control of himself; “but perhaps, Miss Trevanion—”</p> - -<p>“It is not that,” she cried, “it is not that. It is something which it -will take a long time to tell.” She came nearer to him as she spoke, and -putting out her hand touched his arm timidly. The agitation in his face -filled her with grief and self-reproach. “Oh,” she said, “forgive me if -I have given you pain! When you spoke to me at the Elms, you would not -let me answer you; and when you came here my mind was full—oh, full—so -that I could not think of anything else.”</p> - -<p>He broke into a harsh laugh. “You do me too much honor, Miss Trevanion; -perhaps I am not worthy of it. A story of love when it is not one’s own -is— Bah! what a savage I am! and you so kindly condescending, so sorry -to give me pain! Perhaps,” he cried, more and more losing the control of -himself, “you may think it pleasant to drag a man like me at your -chariot-wheels for a year; but I scarcely see the jest. You think, -perhaps, that for a man to stake his life on the chance of a girl’s -favor is nothing—that to put all one’s own plans aside, to postpone -everything, to suspend one’s being—for the payment of—a smile—” He -paused for breath. He was almost beside himself with the sense of -wrong—the burning and bitterness that was in his mind. He had a right -to speak; a man could not thus be trifled with and the woman escape -scot-free.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_454" id="page_454"></a>{454}</span></p> - -<p>Rosalind stood, looking at him, turning from red to pale, alarmed, -bewildered, overcome. How was she, a girl hemmed in by all the -precautions of gentle life, to know what was in the heart of a man in -the bitterness of his disappointment and humiliation? Sorry to have -given him pain! that was all she had thought of. But it had never -occurred to her that the pain might turn to rage and bitterness, and -that instead of the pathos of a rejected lover, she might find herself -face to face with the fury of a man who felt himself outraged, and to -whom it had been a matter of resentment even that she, a slight girl, -should have the disposal of his fate. She turned away to leave him -without a word. But feeling something in her that must be spoken, paused -a moment, holding her head high.</p> - -<p>“I think you have forgotten yourself,” she said, “but that is for you to -judge. You have mistaken me, however, altogether, all through. What I -meant to explain to you was something different—oh, very different. But -there is no longer any room for that. And I think we have said enough to -each other, Mr. Rivers.” He followed her as she turned towards the door. -He could not let her go, neither for love nor for hate. And by this time -he began to see that he had gone too far; he followed her, entreating -her to pause a moment, in a changed and trembling voice. But just then -there occurred an incident which brought all his fury back. Young -Everard, whom he had seen on the way, and whose proceedings were so -often awkward, without perception, instead of entering in the ordinary -way, had somehow strayed on to the terrace with his bouquet, perhaps -because no one had answered his summons at the door, perhaps from a -foolish hope that he might be allowed to enter by the window, as Mrs. -Lennox, in her favor for him, had sometimes permitted him to do. He now -came in sight, hesitating, in front of the open window. Rosalind was too -much excited to think of ordinary rules. She was so annoyed and startled -by his appearance that she made a sudden imperative movement of her -hand, waving him away. It was made in utter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_455" id="page_455"></a>{455}</span> intolerance of his -intrusion, but it seemed to Rivers like the private signal of a mutual -understanding too close for words, as the young fellow’s indiscretion -appeared to him the evidence of privileges only to be accorded to a -successful lover. He stopped short with the prayer for pardon on his -lips, and bursting once more into a fierce laugh of fury, cried, “Ah, -here we have the explanation at last!”</p> - -<p>Rosalind made no reply. She gave him a look of supreme indignation and -scorn, and left him without a word—left him in possession of the -field—with the other, the accepted one, the favored lover—good -heavens!—standing, hesitating, in his awkward way, a shadow against the -light. Rivers had come to a point at which the power of speech fails. It -was all he could do to keep himself from seizing the bouquet and -flinging it into the lake, and the bearer after it. But what was the -use? If she, indeed, loved this fellow, there could be nothing further -said. He turned round with furious impatience, and flung open the door -into the ante-room—to find himself, breathing fire and flame as he was, -and bearing every sign of his agitation in his face, in the midst of the -family party streaming in from different quarters, for luncheon, all in -their ordinary guise. For luncheon! at such a moment, when the mere -outside appearances of composure seemed impossible to him, and his blood -was boiling in his veins.</p> - -<p>“Why, here is Rivers,” said John Trevanion, “at a good moment; we are -just going to lunch, as you see.”</p> - -<p>“And I am going away from Aix,” said Rivers, with a sharpness which he -felt to be like a gun of distress.</p> - -<p>“Going away! that is sudden; but so much the more reason to sit down -with us once more. Come, we can’t let you go.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, impossible to let you go, Mr. Rivers, without saying good-bye,” -said the mellow voice of Mrs. Lennox. “What a good thing we all arrived -in time. The children and Rosalind would have been so disappointed to -miss you. And though we are away from home, and cannot keep it as we -ought, this is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_456" id="page_456"></a>{456}</span> little kind of feast, you know, for it is Rosalind’s -birthday; so you must stay and drink her health. Oh, and here is Mr. -Everard too. Tell him to put two more places directly, Sophy. And how -did you know it was Rosalind’s birthday, Mr. Everard? What a magnificent -bouquet! Come in, come in; we cannot let you go. You must drink -Rosalind’s health on such an important day.”</p> - -<p>Rivers obeyed, as in a dream; he was exhausted with his outbreak, -remorseful, beginning to wonder whether, after all, <i>that</i> was the -explanation? Rosalind came in alone after the rest. She was very pale, -as if she had suffered too, and very grave; not a smile on her face in -response to all the smiles around. For, notwithstanding the excitement -and distress in the house, the family party, on the surface, was -cheerful enough, smiling youthfulness and that regard for appearances -which is second nature carrying it through. The dishes were handed round -as usual, a cheerful din of talk arose; Rex had an appetite beyond all -satisfaction, and even John Trevanion—ill-timed as it all seemed—bore -a smiling face. As for Mrs. Lennox, her voice ran on with scarcely a -pause, skimming over those depths with which she was totally -unacquainted. “And are you really going away, Mr. Rivers?” she said. -“Dear me, I am very sorry. How we shall miss you. Don’t you think we -shall miss Mr. Rivers dreadfully, Rosalind? But to be sure you must want -to see your own people, and you must have a great deal of business to -attend to after being so long away. We are going home ourselves very -soon. Eh! What is that? Who is it? What are you saying, John? Oh, some -message for Rosalind, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>There was a commotion at the farther end of the room, the servants -attempting to restrain some one who forced her way in, in spite of them, -calling loudly upon John Trevanion. It was Russell, flushed and wild—in -her out-door clothes, her bonnet half falling off her head, held by the -strings only, her cloak dropping from her shoulders. She pushed her way -forward to John Trevanion at the foot of the table. “Mr. John,” she -cried,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_457" id="page_457"></a>{457}</span> panting, “I’ve got on the track of her! I told you it was no -ghost. I’ve got on the tracks of her; and there’s some here could tell -you more than me.”</p> - -<p>“What is she talking about? Oh, I think the woman must have gone mad, -John? She thinks since we brought her here that she may say anything. -Send her away, send her away.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll not be sent away,” cried Russell. “I’ve come to do my duty to the -children, and I’ll do it. Mr. John, I tell you I am on her tracks, and -there’s two gentlemen here that can tell you all about her. Two, the -young one and another. Didn’t I tell you?” The woman was intoxicated -with her triumph. “That one with the gray hair, that’s a little more -natural, like her own age—and this one,” cried the excited woman, -sharply, striking Everard on the shoulder, “that ran off with her. And -everything I ever said is proved true.”</p> - -<p>Rivers rose to his feet instinctively as he was pointed out, and stood, -asking with wonder, “What is it? What does she mean? What have I done?” -Everard, who had turned round sharply when he was touched, kept his -seat, throwing a quick, suspicious glance round him. John Trevanion had -risen too, and so did Rex, who seized his former nurse by the arm and -tried to drag her away. The boy was furious. “Be off with you, you —— or -I’ll drag you out,” he cried, crimson with passion.</p> - -<p>At this moment, when the whole party was in commotion, the wheels of a -carriage sounded in the midst of the tumult outside, and a loud knocking -was heard at the door.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXII" id="CHAPTER_LXII"></a>CHAPTER LXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was difficult to explain the impulse which drew them one after -another into the ante-room. On ordinary occasions it would have been the -height of bad manners; and there was no reason, so far as most of the -company knew, why common laws should be postponed to the exigencies of -the occasion. John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_458" id="page_458"></a>{458}</span> Trevanion hurried out first of all, and Rosalind -after him, making no apology. Then Mrs. Lennox, with a troubled face, -put forth her excuses—“I am sure I beg your pardon, but as they seem to -be expecting somebody, perhaps I had better go and see—” Sophy, who had -devoured Russell’s communications with eyes dancing with excitement, had -slipped from her seat at once and vanished. Rex, with a moody face and -his hands in his pockets, strolled to the door, and stood there, leaning -against the opening, divided between curiosity and disgust. The three -men who were rivals alone remained, looking uneasily at each other. They -were all standing up, an embarrassed group, enemies, yet driven together -by stress of weather. Everard was the first to move; he tried to find an -outlet, looking stealthily from one door to another.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think,” he said at last, in a tremulous voice, “that if there -is—any family bother—we had better—go away?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Roland Hamerton, with white lips, “it must be -something about Mrs. Trevanion.” And he too pushed forward into the -ante-room, too anxious to think of politeness, anxious beyond measure to -know what Rosalind was about to do.</p> - -<p>A little circular hall, with a marble floor, was between this ante-room -and the door. The sound of the carriage driving up, the knocking, the -little pause while a servant hurried through to open, gave time for all -these secondary proceedings. Then there was again an interval of -breathless expectation. Mrs. Lennox’s travelling servant was a stranger, -who knew nothing of the family history. He preceded the new-comer with -silent composure, directing his steps to the drawing-room; but when he -found that all the party had silently thronged into the ante-room, he -made a formal pause half-way. No consciousness was in his unfaltering -tones. He drew his feet into the right attitude, and then he announced -the name that fell among them like a thunderbolt—“Mrs. Trevanion”—at -the top of a formal voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_459" id="page_459"></a>{459}</span></p> - -<p>She stood upon the threshold without advancing, her black veil thrown -back, her black dress hanging in heavy folds about her worn figure, her -face very pale, tremulous with a pathetic smile. She was holding fast by -Jane with one hand to support herself. She seemed to stand there for an -indefinite time, detached and separated from everything but the shadow -of her maid behind her, looking at them all, on the threshold of the -future, on the verge of the past; but in reality it was only for a -moment. Before, in fact, they had time to breathe, a great cry rang -through the house, and Rosalind flung herself, precipitated herself, -upon the woman whom she adored. “Mother!” It rang through every room, -thrilling the whole house from its foundations, and going through and -through the anxious spectators, to whom were now added a circle of -astonished servants, eager, not knowing what was happening. Mrs. -Trevanion received the shock of this young life suddenly flung upon her -with a momentary tottering, and, but for Jane behind her, might have -fallen, even as she put forth her arms and returned the vehement -embrace. Their faces met, their heads lay together for a moment, their -arms closed upon each other, there was that murmur without words, of -infinite love, pain, joy, undistinguishable. Then, while Rosalind still -clasped and clung to her, without relaxing a muscle, holding fast as -death what she had thus recovered, Mrs. Trevanion raised her head and -looked round her. Her eyes were wistful, full of a yearning beyond -words. Rosalind was here, but where were the others, her own, the -children of her bosom? Rex stood in the doorway, red and lowering, his -brows drawn down over his eyes, his shoulders up to his ears, a confused -and uneasy embarrassment in every line of his figure. He said not a -word, he looked straight before him, not at her. Sophy had got behind a -curtain, and was peering out, her restless eyes twinkling and moving, -her small figure concealed behind the drapery. The mother looked -wistfully out over the head of Rosalind lying on her bosom, supporting -the girl with her arms, holding her close,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_460" id="page_460"></a>{460}</span> yet gazing, gazing, making a -passionate, pathetic appeal to her very own. Was there to be no reply? -Even on the instant there was a reply; a door was flung open, something -white flashed across the ante-room, and added itself like a little line -of light to the group formed by the two women. Oh, happiness that -overflows the heart! Oh misery that cuts it through like a knife! Of all -that she had brought into the world, little Amy alone!</p> - -<p>“My mistress is not able to bear it. I told her she was not able to bear -it. Let her sit down. Bring something for her; that chair, that chair! -Have pity upon her!” cried Jane, with urgent, vehement tones, which -roused them from the half-stupefaction with which the whole bewildered -assembly was gazing. John Trevanion was the first to move, and with him -Roland Hamerton. The others all stood by looking on; Rivers with the -interest of a spectator at a tragedy, the others with feelings so much -more personal and such a chaos of recollections and alarms. The two who -had started forward to succor her put Mrs. Trevanion reverently into the -great chair; John with true affection and anguish, Roland with a -wondering reverence which the first glance of her face, so altered and -pale, had impressed upon him. Then Mrs. Lennox bustled forward, wringing -her hands; how she had been restrained hitherto nobody ever knew.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace, Grace! oh, my poor Grace! oh, how ill she is looking! Oh, my -dear, my dear, haven’t you got a word for me? Oh, Grace, where have you -been all this time, and why didn’t you come to me? And how could you -distrust me, or think I ever believed, or imagine I wasn’t your friend! -Grace, my poor dear! Oh, Jane, is it a faint! What is it? Who has got a -fan? or some wine. Bring some wine! Oh, Jane, tell us, can’t you tell -us, what we ought to do?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Mrs. Trevanion, rousing herself; “nothing, Sophy. I knew -you were kind always. It is only—a little too much—and I have not been -well. John—oh, yes, that is quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_461" id="page_461"></a>{461}</span> easy—comfortable. Let me rest for a -moment, and then I will tell you what I have come to say.”</p> - -<p>They were all silent for that brief interval; even Mrs. Lennox did -nothing but wring her hands; and those who were most concerned became -like the rest, spectators of the tragedy. Little Amy, kneeling, half -thrown across her mother’s lap, made a spot of light upon the black -dress with her light streaming hair. Rosalind stood upright, very -upright, by the side of the mother whom she had found again, confronting -all the world in a high, indignant championship, which was so strangely -contrasted with the quiet wistfulness and almost satisfaction in the -face of the woman by whom she stood. Jane, very anxious, watching every -movement, her attention concentrated upon her mistress, stood behind the -chair.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. Trevanion opened her eyes she smiled. John Trevanion stood by -her on one side, Rosalind on the other. She had no lack of love, of -sympathy, or friendship. She looked from between them over Amy’s bright -head with a quivering of her lips. “Oh, no test, no test!” she said to -herself. She had known how it would be. She withdrew her eyes from the -boy standing gloomy in the doorway. She began to speak, and everybody -but he made some unconscious movement of quickened attention. Rex did -not give any sign, nor one other, standing behind, half hidden by the -door.</p> - -<p>“Sophy,” she said quietly, “I have always had the fullest trust in your -kindness; and if I come to your house on Rosalind’s birthday that can -hurt no one. This dreadful business has been going on too long—too -long. Flesh and blood cannot bear it. I have grown very weak—in mind, I -mean in mind. When I heard the children were near me I yielded to the -temptation and went to look at them. And all this has followed. Perhaps -it was wrong. My mind has got confused; I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace, my dear, how could it be wrong to look at your little -children, your own children, whom you were so cruelly, cruelly parted -from?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_462" id="page_462"></a>{462}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Lennox began to cry. She adopted her sister-in-law’s cause in a -moment, without hesitation or pause. Her different opinion before -mattered nothing now. Mrs. Trevanion understood all and smiled, and -looked up at John Trevanion, who stood by her with his hand upon the -chair, very grave, his face full of pain, saying nothing. He was a -friend whom she had never doubted, and yet was it not his duty to -enforce the separation, as it had been his to announce it to her?</p> - -<p>“I know,” she cried, “and I know what is your duty, John. Only I have a -hope that something may come which will make it your duty no longer. But -in the meantime I have changed my mind about many things. I thought it -best before to go away without any explanations; I want now to tell you -everything.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind clasped her hand more closely. “Dear mother, what you please; -but not because we want explanations,” she said, her eyes including the -whole party in one high, defiant gaze.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, dear, no. We want nothing but just to enjoy your society a -little,” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Give dear Grace your arm, and bring her -into the drawing-room, John. Explanations! No, no! If there is anything -that is disagreeable let it just be forgotten. We are all friends now; -indeed we have always been friends,” the good woman cried.</p> - -<p>“I want to tell you how I left home,” Mrs. Trevanion said. She turned to -her brother-in-law, who was stooping over the back of her chair, his -face partially concealed. “John, you were right, yet you were all wrong. -In those terrible evenings at Highcourt”—she gave a slight shudder—“I -did indeed go night after night to meet—a man in the wood. When I went -away I went with him, to make up to him—the man, poor boy! he was -scarcely more than a boy—was—” She paused, her eye caught by a strange -combination. It brought the keenest pang of misery to her heart, yet -made her smile. Everard had been drawn by the intense interest of the -scene into the room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_463" id="page_463"></a>{463}</span> He stood in the doorway close to young Rex, who -leaned against it, looking out under the same lowering brows, in the -same attitude of sullen resistance. She gazed at them for a moment with -sad certainty, and yet a wonder never to be extinguished. “There,” she -said, with a keen sharpness of anguish in her voice, “they stand -together; look and you will see. My sons—both mine—and neither with -anything in his heart that speaks for me!”</p> - -<p>These words, and the unconscious group in the doorway, who were the only -persons in the room unaffected by what was said, threw a sudden -illumination upon the scene and the story and everything that had been. -A strange thrill ran through the company as every individual turned -round and gazed, and perceived, and understood. Mrs. Lennox gave a -sudden cry, clasping her hands together, and Rosalind, who was holding -Mrs. Trevanion’s hand, gave it such a sudden pressure, emphatic, almost -violent, that the sufferer moved involuntarily with the pain. John -Trevanion raised his head from where he had been leaning on her chair. -He took in everything with a glance. Was it an older Rex, less assured, -less arrogant, but not less determined to resist all softening -influences? But the effect on John was not that of an explanation, but -of an alarming, horrifying discovery. He withdrew from Mrs. Trevanion’s -chair. A tempest of wonder and fear arose in his mind. The two in the -doorway moved uneasily under the observation to which they were suddenly -subjected. They gave each other a naturally defiant glance. Neither of -them realized the revelation that had been made, not even Everard, -though he knew it—not Rex, listening with jealous repugnance, resisting -all the impulses of nature. Neither of them understood the wonderful -effect that was produced upon the others by the sight of them standing -side by side.</p> - -<p>John Trevanion had suddenly taken up a new position; no one knew why he -spoke in harsh, distinct tones, altogether unlike his usual friendly and -gentle voice. “Let us know,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_464" id="page_464"></a>{464}</span> now, exactly what this means; and, for -God’s sake, no further concealment, no evasion. Speak out for that poor -boy’s sake.”</p> - -<p>There was surprise in Mrs. Trevanion’s eyes as she raised them to his -face. “I have come to tell you everything,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said Jane, “my poor lady is far from strong. Before she says more -and brings on one of her faints, let her rest—oh, let her rest.”</p> - -<p>For once in his life John Trevanion had no pity. “Her faints,” he said; -“does she faint? Bring wine, bring something; but I must understand -this, whatever happens. It is a matter of life or death.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John,” said Rosalind, “I will not have her disturbed. Whatever -there is amiss can be told afterwards. I am here to take care of her. -She shall not do more than she is able for; no, not even for you.”</p> - -<p>“Rosalind, are you mad? Don’t you see what hangs upon it? Reginald’s -position—everything, perhaps. I must understand what she means. I must -understand what <i>that</i> means.” John Trevanion’s face was utterly without -color; he could not stand still—he was like a man on the rack. “I must -know everything, and instantly; for how can she stay here, unless— She -must not stay.”</p> - -<p>This discussion, and his sharp, unhappy tone seemed to call Madam to -herself.</p> - -<p>“I did not faint,” she said, softly. “It is a mistake to call them -faints. I never was unconscious; and surely, Rosalind, he has a right to -know. I have come to explain everything.”</p> - -<p>Roland Hamerton had been standing behind. He came close to Rosalind’s -side. “Madam,” he said, “if you are not to stay here, wherever I have a -house, wherever I can give you a shelter, it is yours; whatever I can do -for you, from the bottom of my heart!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion opened her eyes, which had been closed. She shook her -head very softly; and then she said almost in a whisper, “Rosalind, he -is very good and honest and true. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_465" id="page_465"></a>{465}</span> should be glad if— And Amy, my -darling! you must go and get dressed. You will catch cold. Go, my love, -and then come back to me. I am ready, John. I want to make everything -clear.”</p> - -<p>Rosalind held her hand fast. She stood like a sentinel facing them all, -her left hand clasping Mrs. Trevanion’s, the other free, as if in -defence of her. And Roland stood close behind, ready to answer any call. -He was of Madam’s faction against all the world, the crowd (as it seemed -to these young people), before whom she was about to make her defence. -These two wanted no defence; neither did Mrs. Lennox, standing in front, -wringing her hands, with her honest face full of trouble, following -everything that each person said. “She is more fit to be in her bed than -anywhere else,” Mrs. Lennox was saying; “she is as white—as white as my -handkerchief. Oh, John, you that are so reasonable, and that always was -a friend to her—how can you be so cruel to her? She shall stay,” cried -Aunt Sophy, with a sudden outburst, “in my house— I suppose it is my -house—as long as she will consent to stay.”</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding this, of all the people present, there was no one who in -his heart had stood by her so closely as John Trevanion. But -circumstances had so determined it that he must be her judge now. He -made a pause, and then pointed to the doorway in which the two young men -stood with a mutual scowl at each other. “Explain that,” he said, in -sharp, staccato tones, “first of all.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, John, I will explain,” Mrs, Trevanion said, with humility. “When I -met my husband first—” She paused as if to take breath—“I was married, -and I had a child. I feel no shame now,” she went on, yet with a faint -color rising over her paleness. “Shame is over for me; I must tell my -story without evasion, as you say. It is this, John. I thought I was a -deserted wife, and my boy had a right to his name. The same ship that -brought Reginald Trevanion brought the news that I was deceived. I was -left in a strange country without a <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_466" id="page_466"></a>{466}</span>friend—a woman who was no wife, -with a child who had no father. I thought I was the most miserable of -women; but now I know better. I know now—”</p> - -<p>John’s countenance changed at once. What he had feared or suspected was -never known to any of them; but his aspect changed; he tried to -interrupt her, and, coming back to her side, took her other hand. -“Grace,” he cried, “Grace! it is enough. I was a brute to think— Grace, -my poor sister—”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, John; but I have not done. Your father,” she went on, -unconsciously changing, addressing another audience, “saw me, and heard -my story. And he was sorry for me—oh, he was more than sorry. He was -young and so was I. He proposed to me after a while that if I would give -up my boy—and we had no living, nothing to keep us from starvation—and -marry him, he would take care of the child; it should want for nothing, -but that I must never see it more. For a long time I could not make up -my mind. But poverty is very sharp; and how to get bread I knew not. The -child was pining, and so was I. And I was young. I suppose,” she said in -a low voice, drooping her head, “I still wished, still needed to be -happy. That seems so natural when one is young. And your father loved -me; and I him—and I him!”</p> - -<p>She said these words very low, with a pause between. “There, you have -all my story,” with a glimmer of a smile on her face. “It is a tragedy, -but simple enough, after all. I was never to see the child again; but my -heart betrayed me, and I deceived your father. I went and looked at my -boy out of windows, waited to see him pass—once met him on a railway -journey when you were with me, Rosalind—which was all wrong, wrong—oh, -wrong on both sides; to your father and to him. I don’t excuse myself. -Then, poor boy, he fell into trouble. How could he help it? His father’s -blood was in him, and mine too—a woman false to my vow. He was without -friend or home. When he was in great need and alarm, he came—was it not -natural?—to his mother. What could be more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_467" id="page_467"></a>{467}</span> natural? He sent for me to -meet him, to help him, to tell him what to do. What could I do but -go—all being so wrong, so wrong? Jane knows everything. I begged my -poor boy to go away; but he was ignorant, he did not know the danger. -And then Russell, you know, who had never loved me—is she there, poor -woman?—found us out. She carried this story to your father. You think, -and she thinks,” said Mrs. Trevanion, raising herself with great dignity -in her chair, “that my husband suspected me of—of— I cannot tell what -shameful suspicions. Reginald,” she went on, with a smile half scornful, -“had no such thought. He knew me better. He knew I went to meet my son, -and that I was risking everything for my son. He had vowed to me that in -that case I should be cut off from him and his. Oh, yes, I knew it all. -My eyes were open all the time. And he did what he had said.” She drew a -long breath. There was a dispassionate sadness in her voice, as of -winding up a history all past. “And what was I to do?” she resumed. “Cut -off from all the rest, there was a chance that I might yet be of some -use to him—my boy, whom I had neglected. Oh, John and Rosalind, I -wronged <i>you</i>. I should have told you this before; but I had not the -heart. And then, there was no time to lose, if I was to be of service to -the boy.”</p> - -<p>Everything was perfectly still in the room; no one had stirred; they -were afraid to lose a word. When she had thus ended she made a pause. -Her voice had been very calm, deliberate, a little feeble, with pauses -in it. When she spoke again it took another tone; it was full of -entreaty, like a prayer. She withdrew her hand from Rosalind.</p> - -<p>“Reginald!” she said, “Rex! have you nothing to say to me, my boy!”</p> - -<p>The direction of all eyes was changed and turned upon the lad. He stood -very red, very lowering, without moving from his post against the door. -He did not look at her. After a moment he began to clear his voice. “I -don’t know,” he said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_468" id="page_468"></a>{468}</span> “what there is to say.” Then, after another -pause: “I suppose I am expected to stick to my father’s will. I suppose -that’s my duty.”</p> - -<p>“But for all that,” she said, with a pleading which went to every heart; -her eyes filled, which had been quite dry, her mouth quivered with a -tender smile—“for all that, oh, my boy! it is not to take me in, to -make a sacrifice; but for once speak to me, come to me; I am your -mother, Rex.”</p> - -<p>Sophy had been behind the curtain all the time, wrapped in it, peering -out with her restless, dancing eyes. She was still only a child. Her -little bosom had begun to ache with sobs kept in, her face to work, her -mind to be moved by impulses beyond her power. She had tried to mould -herself upon Rex, until Rex, with the shadow of the other beside him, -holding back, repelling, resisting, became contemptible in Sophy’s keen -eyes. It was perhaps this touch of the ridiculous that affected her -sharp mind more than anything else; and the sound of her mother’s voice, -as it went on speaking, was more than nature could bear, and roused -impulses she scarcely understood within her. She resisted as long as she -could, winding herself up in the curtain; but at these last words -Sophy’s bonds were loosed; she shook herself out of the drapery and came -slowly forward, with eyes glaring red out of her pale face.</p> - -<p>“They say,” she said suddenly, “that we shall lose all our money, mamma, -if we go to you.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion’s fortitude and calm had given way. She was not prepared -for this trial. She turned towards the new voice and held out her arms -without a word. But Sophy stood frightened, reluctant, anxious, her keen -eyes darting out of her head.</p> - -<p>“And what could I do?” she cried. “I am only a little thing, I couldn’t -work. If you gave up your baby because of being poor, what should we do, -Rex and I? We are younger, though you said you were young. We want to be -well off, too. If we were to go to you, everything would be taken from -us!” cried Sophy. “Mamma, what can we do?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_469" id="page_469"></a>{469}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion turned to her supporters on either side of her with a -smile; her lips still trembled. “Sophy was always of a logical mind,” -she said, with a faint half-laugh. The light was flickering round her, -blackness coming where all these eager faces were. “I—I have my answer. -It is just enough. I have no—complaint.”</p> - -<p>There was a sudden outcry and commotion where all had been so still -before. Jane came from behind the chair and swept away, with that -command which knowledge gives, the little crowd which had closed in -around. “Air! air is what she wants, and to be quiet! Go away, for God’s -sake, all but Miss Rosalind!”</p> - -<p>John Trevanion hurried to open the window, and the faithful servant -wheeled the chair close to it in which her mistress lay. Just then two -other little actors came upon the scene. Amy had obeyed her mother -literally. She had gone and dressed with that calm acceptance of all -wonders which is natural to childhood; then sought her little brother at -play in the nursery. “Come and see mamma,” she said. Without any -surprise, Johnny obeyed. He had his whip in his hand, which he -flourished as he came into the open space which had been cleared round -that chair.</p> - -<p>“Where’s mamma?” said Johnny. His eyes sought her among the people -standing about. When his calm but curious gaze found out the fainting -figure he shook his hand free from that of Amy, who led him. “That!” he -said, contemptuously; “that’s not mamma, that’s the lady.”</p> - -<p>Against the absolute certainty of his tone there was nothing to be said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIII" id="CHAPTER_LXIII"></a>CHAPTER LXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span> had stood listening all through this strange scene, he scarcely -knew why. He was roused now to the inappropriateness of his presence -here. What had he to do in the midst of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_470" id="page_470"></a>{470}</span> a family tragedy with which he -had no connection? His heart contracted with one sharp spasm of pain. He -had no connection with the Trevanions. He looked round him, half -contemptuous of himself, for some one of whom he could take leave before -he closed the door of this portion of his life behind him, and left it -forever. There was no one. All the different elements were drawn -together in the one central interest with which the stranger had nothing -to do. Rivers contemplated the group around Mrs. Trevanion’s chair as if -it had been a picture. The drama was over, and all had resolved itself -into stillness, whether the silence of death, or a pause only and -interruption of the continuity, he could not tell. He looked round him, -unconsciously receiving every detail into his mind. This was what he had -given a year of his life for, to leave this household with which he had -so strongly identified himself without even a word of farewell and to -see them no more. He lingered only for a moment, the lines of the -picture biting themselves in upon his heart. When he felt it to be so -perfect that no after-experience could make it dim he went away; Roland -Hamerton followed him to the door. Hamerton, on his side, very much -shaken by the agitating scene, to which his inexperience knew no -parallel, was eager to speak to some one, to relieve his heart.</p> - -<p>“Do you think she is dead?” he said under his breath.</p> - -<p>“Death, in my experience, rarely comes so easily,” Rivers replied. After -a pause he added, “I am going away to-night. I suppose you remain?”</p> - -<p>“If I can be of any use. You see I have known them all my life.”</p> - -<p>“There you have the advantage of me,” said the other, sharply, with a -sort of laugh. “I have given them only a year of mine. Good-bye, -Hamerton. Our way—does not lie the same—”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” said Roland, taken by surprise, and stopping short, though -he had not meant to do so. Then he called after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_471" id="page_471"></a>{471}</span> him with a kindly -impulse, “We shall be sure to hear of you. Good luck! Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>Good luck! The words seemed an insult; but they were not so meant. -Rivers sped on, never looking back. At the gate he made up to Everard, -walking with his head down and his hands in his pockets, in gloomy -discomfiture. His appearance moved Rivers to a kind of inward laugh. -There was no triumph, at least, in him.</p> - -<p>“You have come away without knowing if your mother will live or die.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the use of waiting on?” said young Everard. “She’ll be all -right. They are only faints; all women have them; they are nothing to be -frightened about.”</p> - -<p>“I think they are a great deal to be frightened about—very likely she -will never leave that house alive.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, stuff!” Everard said; and then he added, half apologetically, “You -don’t know her as I do.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps better than you do,” said Rivers; and then he added, as he had -done to Hamerton, “Our ways lie in different directions. Good-bye. I am -leaving Aix to-night.”</p> - -<p>Everard looked after him, surprised. He had no good wishes to speak, as -Roland had. A sense of pleasure at having got rid of an antagonist was -in his mind. For his mind was of the calibre which is not aware when -there comes an end. All life to him was a ragged sort of thread, going -on vaguely, without any logic in it. He was conscious that a great deal -had happened and that the day had been full of excitement; but how it -was to affect his life he did not know.</p> - -<p>Thus the three rivals parted. They had not been judged on their merits, -but the competition was over. He who was nearest to the prize felt, like -the others, his heart and courage very low; for he had not succeeded in -what he had attempted; he had done nothing to bring about the happy -termination; and whether even that termination was to be happy or not, -as yet no one could say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_472" id="page_472"></a>{472}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIV" id="CHAPTER_LXIV"></a>CHAPTER LXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Madam</span> was conveyed with the greatest care and tenderness to the best -room in the house, Mrs. Lennox’s own room, which it was a great -satisfaction to that kind soul to give up to her, making the little -sacrifice with joy.</p> - -<p>“I have always thought what a nice room to be ill in—don’t you think it -is a nice room, Grace?—and to get better in, my dear. You can step into -the fresh air at once as soon as you are strong enough, and there is -plenty of room for us all to come and sit with you; and, please God, -we’ll soon have you well again and everything comfortable,” cried Mrs. -Lennox, her easy tears flowing softly, her easy words rolling out like -them. Madam accepted everything with soft thanks and smiles, and a quiet -ending seemed to fall quite naturally to the agitated day. Rosalind -spent the night by her mother’s bedside—the long, long night that -seemed as if it never would be done. When at last it was over, the -morning made everything more hopeful. A famous doctor, who happened to -be in the neighborhood, came with a humbler brother from Aix and -examined the patient, and said she had no disease—no disease—only no -wish or intention of living. Rosalind’s heart bounded at the first -words, but fell again at the end of the sentence, which these men of -science said very gravely. As for Mrs. Trevanion, she smiled at them -all, and made no complaint. All the day she lay there, sometimes lapsing -into that momentary death which she would not allow to be called a -faint, then coming back again, smiling, talking by intervals. The -children did not tire her, she said. Little Johnny, accustomed to the -thought that “the lady” was mamma, accepted it as quite simple, and, -returning to his usual occupations, drove a coach and four made of -chairs in her room, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_473" id="page_473"></a>{473}</span> her perfect satisfaction and his. The cracking -of his whip did not disturb her. Neither did Amy, who sat on her bed, -and forgot her troubles, and sang a sort of ditty, of which the burden -was “Mamma has come back.” Sophy, wandering long about the door of the -room, at last came in too, and standing at a distance, stared at her -mother with those sharp, restless eyes of hers, like one who was afraid -to be infected if she made too near an approach. And later in the -afternoon Reginald came suddenly in, shamefaced and gloomy, and came up -to the bed, and kissed her, almost without looking at her. At other -times, Mrs. Trevanion was left alone with her brother-in-law and -Rosalind, who understood her best, and talked to them with animation and -what seemed to be pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Rosalind will not see,” she said with a smile, “that there comes a time -when dying is the most natural—the most easy way of settling -everything—the most pleasant for every one concerned.” There was no -solemnity in her voice, though now and then it broke, and there were -pauses for strength. She was the only one of the three who was cheerful -and at ease. “If I were so ill-advised as to live,” she added with a -faint laugh, “nothing could be changed. The past, you allow, has become -impossible, Rosalind; I could not go away again. That answered for once, -but not again.”</p> - -<p>“You would be with me, mother, or I with you; for I am free, you know—I -am free now.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Trevanion shook her head. “John,” she said, “tell her; she is too -young to understand of herself. Tell her that this is the only way to -cut the knot—that it is the best way—the most pleasant—John, tell -her.”</p> - -<p>He was standing by with his head bent upon his breast. He made a hasty -sign with his hand. He could not have spoken to save his own life, or -even hers. It was all intolerable, past bearing. He stood and listened, -with sometimes an outcry—sometimes, alas, a dreadful consent in his -heart to what she said, but he could not speak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_474" id="page_474"></a>{474}</span></p> - -<p>The conviction that now is the moment to die, that death is the most -natural, noble, even agreeable way of solving a great problem, and -making the path clear not only for the individual most closely -concerned, but for all around, is not unusual in life. Both in the -greater historical difficulties, and in those which belong to private -story, it appears often that this would be the better way. But the -conviction is not always sufficient to carry itself out. Sometimes it -will so happen that he or she in whose person the difficulty lies will -so prevail over flesh and blood, so exalt the logic of the situation, as -to attain this easy solution of the problem. But not in all cases does -it succeed. Madam proved to be one of those who fail. Though she had so -clearly made out what was expedient, and so fully consented to it, the -force of her fine organization was such that she was constrained to -live, and could not die.</p> - -<p>And, what was more wonderful still, from the moment when she entered -Mrs. Lennox’s room at Bonport, the problem seemed to dissolve itself and -flee away in unsubstantial vapor-wreaths like a mist, as if it were no -problem at all. One of the earliest posts brought a black-edged letter -from England, announcing the death of Mr. Blake, the second executor of -Reginald Trevanion’s will, and John, with a start of half-incredulous -wonder, found himself the only responsible authority in the matter. It -had already been his determination to put it to the touch, to ascertain -whether such a will would stand, even with the chilling doubt upon his -mind that Mrs. Trevanion might not be able to explain the circumstances -which involved her in suspicion. But now suddenly, miraculously, it -became apparent to him that nothing need be done at all, no publicity -given, no scandal made. For who was there to take upon him the odious -office of reviving so odious an instrument? Who was to demand its -observance? Who interfere with the matter if it dropped into contempt? -The evil thing seemed to die and come to an end without any -intervention. Its conditions had become a manifest impossibility—to be -resisted to the death if need were;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_475" id="page_475"></a>{475}</span> but there was no need: for had they -not in a moment become no more than a dead letter? Might not this have -been from the beginning, and all the misery spared? As John Trevanion -looked back upon it, asking himself this question, that terrible moment -in the past seemed to him like a feverish dream. No one of the actors in -it had preserved his or her self-command. The horror had been so great -that it had taken their faculties from them, and Madam’s sudden action, -of which the reasons were only now apparent, had cut the ground from -under the feet of the others, and forestalled all reasonable attempts to -bring something better out of it. She had not been without blame. Her -pride, too, had been in fault; her womanish haste, the precipitate -measures which had made any better solution impossible. But now all that -was over. Why should she die, now that everything had become clear?</p> - -<p>The circumstances got revealed, to some extent, in Aix, among the -English visitors who remained, and even to the ordinary population in a -curious version, the point of the rumor being that the mysterious -English lady had died with the little somnambulist in her arms, who, it -was hoped for the sake of sensation, had died too. This was the rumor -that reached Everard’s ears on the morning after, when he went to seek -his mother in the back room she had inhabited at the hotel, and found no -trace of her, but this legend to explain her absence. It had been hard -to get at his heart, perhaps impossible by ordinary means; but this news -struck him like a mortal blow. And his organization was not like hers. -He fell prostrate under it, and it was weeks before he got better and -could be removed. The hands into which this weakling fell were nerveless -but gentle hands. Aunt Sophy had “taken to” him from the first, and he -had always responded to her kindness. When he was able to go home she -took “Grace’s boy” to her own house, where the climate was milder than -at Highcourt; and by dint of a quite uncritical and undiscriminating -affection, and perfect contentment with him as he was, in the virtue of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_476" id="page_476"></a>{476}</span> -his convalescence, did more to make of Edmund Everard a tolerable member -of an unexacting society than his mother could ever have done. There are -some natures for whose treatment it is well that their parents should be -fools. It seems cruel to apply such a word to the kind but silly soul -who had so much true bounty and affection in her. She and he gave each -other a great deal of consolation and mutual advantage in the course of -the years.</p> - -<p>Russell had been, like Everard, incapable of supposing that the victim -might die under their hands; and when all seemed to point to that -certainty, the shock of shame and remorse helped to change the entire -tenor of her life. She who had left the village triumphantly announcing -herself as indispensable to the family and the children, could not -return there in circumstances so changed. She married Mrs. Lennox’s -Swiss servant in haste, and thereafter spent her life in angry -repentance. She now keeps a <i>Pension</i> in Switzerland, where her quality -of Englishwoman is supposed to attract English visitors, and lays up her -gains bitterly amid “foreign ways,” which she tells any new-comer she -cannot abide.</p> - -<p>And Rosalind did what probably Mr. Ruskin’s Rosiere, tired of her seven -suitors, would in most cases do—escaping from the illusions of her own -imagination and from the passion which had frightened her, fell back -upon the steady, faithful love which had executed no hard task for her, -done no heroic deed, but only loved her persistently, pertinaciously, -through all. She married Roland Hamerton some months after they all -returned home. And thus this episode of family history came to an end. -Probably she would have done the same without any strain of compulsion -had these calamities and changes never been.</p> - -<p class="c"><small>THE END.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Madam, by Mrs. Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADAM *** - -***** This file should be named 55125-h.htm or 55125-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/2/55125/ - -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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