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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: Cousin Mary - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: September 26, 2020 [EBook #63302] -[Last updated: June 21, 2022] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN MARY *** - - - - -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) - - - - - - - - - - COUSIN MARY - - - BY - MRS. OLIPHANT - AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC. - - - _THIRD EDITION_ - - - London - S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. - 8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW - - - - - COUSIN MARY - -[Illustration: “BY-AND-BY IT CAME TO PASS THAT THESE TWO MET... IN THE -COTTAGES” (_p. 36_).] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -CHAP. PAGE - - I. ONLY MARY 7 - - II. ONLY THE CURATE 19 - - III. THE TWO TOGETHER 31 - - IV. MARY’S LITTLE THOUGHTS 44 - - V. SELF-BETRAYED 58 - - VI. PARADISE LANE 73 - - VII. THE DISCLOSURE 88 - - VIII. NEVERTHELESS 103 - - IX. “HAPPY EVER AFTER” 118 - - X. THE LIGHT OF COMMON DAY 133 - - XI. THE FIRST CHANGE 148 - - XII. THE ELDEST CHILD 163 - - XIII. A CONFERENCE 178 - - XIV. GOING AWAY 193 - - XV. FIRESIDE TALK 211 - - XVI. ALARMS 226 - - XVII. SHUTTING UP 244 - -XVIII. “LET ME GO HOME” 260 - - XIX. IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 273 - - XX. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 289 - - XXI. AN INNOCENT SUFFERER 304 - - XXII. MARY’S INVESTIGATIONS 321 - -XXIII. THE SICK ROOM 337 - - XXIV. THE INVALID GENTLEMAN 353 - - XXV. THE RESTORATION 369 - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -COUSIN MARY. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -ONLY MARY. - - -The Prescotts of Horton had been a powerful family in their day. Their -house still was more in accordance with their past greatness than with -the mediocrity of their fortune at the period of their history which has -first to be indicated to the reader. They were no longer in the first -rank in their county, but had settled down by degrees without any great -fall, into the position of ordinary squires: that is to say, their fall -had happened a hundred and fifty years before, in the time of that -unhappy attempt to subvert the government established by the Revolution, -which is known as the “Fifteen.” The Prescott of that period had joined -the rebellion, if rebellion it could be called, and had escaped with his -life at its disastrous conclusion. His son had secured a portion of the -family belongings, but never had been able to regain the wealth or the -position of his forefathers; and since then the family had remained -humble but proud, thinking a great deal of themselves, but not thought -quite so much of by their neighbours--a family not clever, nor any way -distinguished, yet furnishing its quota of stout soldiers and -respectable clergymen, with now and then a lawyer or two, to the service -of the state. - -The elder brother, the Squire, had been generally a dullish, goodish -sort of man, doing his duty fairly well, fairly kind to his younger -brothers and sisters, keeping up the ancestral house as well as he could -on means not great enough for any splendour, and giving more or less a -home to the scattered members of his family. The great advantage of -those much abused laws of primogeniture, entail, or whatever else they -may be which fix the succession in one member of a family, is this--that -they are far more apt to keep up a central point, a family home, than -any other arrangement yet discovered. When all share alike, no one has -any particular claim upon the others, and ancestral homes, like all -other primitive regulations for preserving the sacred nucleus of the -family, cease to be. - -The younger Prescott brothers went off to seek their fortunes in every -generation; the elder always kept up the house. It depended upon his -character, and perhaps still more on that of his wife, whether this home -was or was not a kindly one, but still it was always there; a possible -shelter in all circumstances, a perpetual court of appeal against the -injustices of the world. - -I have not space enough here to describe the old house, which was much -too great for the income and pretensions of the present occupant. It -was a great house, partly Elizabethan, with additions in later days, -with two great wings, in one of which was a fine portrait gallery, while -the other contained the show apartments of the house, a suite of rooms -which were quite worthy to have been occupied by a king, though fact -compels us to add that royalty had made but a very slight use of them. -King Charles, in one of his hasty rides in the midst of his troubled -career, had paused to eat a morsel in the hall, and to wash his royal -hands in a dressing-room. This was all, but it was something, and the -rooms were beautiful with their faded furniture and heavy old hangings -and tapestries, and chairs covered with embroidered work. All this was -very much faded, and kept with difficulty from falling to pieces; but it -was very imposing, and strangers came from all quarters to see the -house. The pictures in the gallery were all portraits now, though it was -a tradition that there had once been several old Masters which were sold -in the troubles, but of which the frames still remained, blankly filled -up by pieces of old brocade, in themselves a sight to see. Some even of -the portraits, especially those which had been painted by famous -masters, had disappeared too, so that the importance of the gallery in -point of art was small. - -These remains of glory past were separate from the living part of the -house. They were kept in order, and shown to strangers, a point of -family pride which every Prescott held to be essential. But the existing -Prescotts lived in the centre part of the house, which was too large for -them, with its great hall and the other beautiful rooms, so airy and -spacious, which were the creation of a generation which did not fear -expense and loved space. The fine wainscoted room which was used as the -dining-room in modern days, accommodated thirty people easily at dinner, -whereas the Prescotts numbered but six, and seldom had company. The -drawing-room was still larger, with noble broad bay windows, each as big -as a modern room. To furnish all this, it may be supposed, was no -trifle; and the furniture was shabby; what was old, faded; what was new, -not half good enough for the natural splendour of the place. -Nevertheless, new and old together harmonised somehow by mere use and -wont, and the general appearance was that of a mingled humility and -pride, like the character of the family, which thought such great things -of itself and yet was able to do only little things and occupy a small -position in the world. - -This family consisted of six persons, as has been said--the Squire and -his wife; the eldest son, who was very far from clever, who was, indeed, -sometimes considered to be “not all there,” a mild, long young man, with -an elongated, melancholy visage, not unlike that of the tragic monarch -whose passing visit had given a historical association to the house. His -name was not a romantic one; it was plain John, according to the habit -of the house. He was very mild in all his tastes; good so far as a -person, so neutral-tinted could be called good; kind, disturbing -nobody, ready to do almost anything that was asked of him, so long as it -was asked with due regard to his dignity--but as thoroughly aware of his -importance as a Prescott, and the eldest son, as if he had possessed all -the brains of the house. Then there were two sisters, no longer very -young, but who had not yet renounced the _rôle_ of youth, and who were -always called “the girls,” according to general family usage. - -Last of all was Percival, the soldier, the youngest, the prodigal, the -spendthrift, the clever one, the beloved of the house. All these names -do not mean that there was anything bad about Percy--quite the reverse. -His gaiety made the house bright, his laugh rang through all the great -rooms and woke cheerful echoes. Money trickled through his fingers he -could not tell how, but he did no particular harm with it. The worst was -that he was generally away from home with his regiment, and when he came -home, though it was a delight to look forward to, and did everybody -good, Mr. Prescott was always awfully conscious that for this happiness -there would certainly be a good deal to pay. “That is all very well, my -dear,” he would say to his wife, “so long as I live: but when John is -master poor Percy will find out the difference.” “Ah, John!” Mrs. -Prescott would answer, with a sigh, wondering in her heart who John’s -wife would be, thinking what a good thing it would be if he were not to -marry, feeling sure that whoever married him would be the future ruler -of Horton. That was the danger that lay in her gallant Percy’s way. - -This accounts for five people, and I have said there were six. The last -was only Mary. The other members of the family would have thought it -quite unnecessary to give any further description of her. She was the -one who did all manner of little errands in the house, and little -offices. She arranged the flowers; if Anna wanted something upstairs it -was Mary who ran to fetch it; if Sophie left anything in the garden, or -on one of the tables in the hall, Mary always knew where to find it. -She fetched Mr. Prescott the newspaper he had left about, and found her -aunt’s spectacles, and got John his hat, which he always forgot when he -was going out. When Percy was at home she did all sorts of commissions -for him; even the old housekeeper gave her messages and things to carry. -“Just put this in the drawing-room, Miss Mary, my dear,” or, “Will you -take these books to Miss Anna?” was what Mrs. Beesly said half-a-dozen -times a day. They meant no harm whatever, and did not oppress her, or -ill-use her, or neglect her, or do any of the things which are supposed -to be done to a little dependent orphan in her uncle’s house. Perhaps -they may have been said to have neglected her, but not of any evil -intent. - -They meant no harm; she was only Mary: there was no particular reason -that anybody knew of for thinking of her, or putting anybody out of -their way on her account. She was a child in the opinion of all the -others, even of “the girls.” She was not included in that term. She was -not even advanced to the rank of one of the girls. She was only Mary. -She had never been whipped, or scolded, or put in dark closets, or set -to hard tasks all her life. It is true that Anna’s and Sophie’s old -dresses were very often “made down” for her: but that would have -happened all the same had she been Anna’s and Sophie’s sister. Her life -was happy enough; she had a share of everything that was going; and it -never had occurred to her that she should be made of any particular -account. - -In her own mind, as well as in the conviction of the whole household, -she was only Mary. She was a quiet little thing, but always cheerful, -ready to talk when any one wanted to talk, or to play her little pieces -when asked for them, or to be silent like a little mouse when there was -no need for such vanities. She took herself as easily as the others took -her, making no sort of pretension. Nor did she feel wronged, or -offended, or slighted, as some might have done. She was only Mary, not -Miss Prescott of Horton, as both the girls were. She was not even a -Prescott, only a sister’s daughter, an unconsidered trifle in the -feminine line. Her whole life was pitched in this minor key, but it was -not at all an unhappy little life at her age, for she was barely twenty. -It had not yet begun to matter very much that she was a first object to -nobody. As a matter of fact, everything was perfectly natural about her, -and she had never found that things might be brighter, or that she -really had any aspiration after a more individual life. - -She had an uncle at the Rectory as well as at the Hall, but there were -no young people in the clerical house. This was how things stood with -the Prescotts and Mary Burnet, when the new curate arrived, of whom -Uncle Hugh at the Rectory had heard so very good an account. Uncle Hugh -was a very conscientious clergyman. He liked to keep the parish in -thoroughly good working order, but if truth must be told he preferred -that some one else should do the work for him. He had the very best -recommendations with the new curate. He was hard-working, he was -moderate, not too much of a ritualist, and yet a very good Churchman, -and a man who socially took nothing upon him; a retiring, modest young -man. The Rector was most fortunate in getting a curate like Mr. Asquith, -everybody said. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER II. - -ONLY THE CURATE. - - -A curate is a very useful member of the Church militant. He is the stuff -out of which all its more dignified functionaries are made; and he does -a great deal of the hard work, with a very limited proportion of the -pay. But notwithstanding all this, he has a great deal to put up with in -the way of snubs from his superiors, and indifference from the public, -who accept his services often without prizing them very much. He has -compensation in his youth, which makes him acceptable to the younger and -fairer portion of the flock, and in his hopes of better things, as well -as, no doubt, to leave pleasantry apart, in the satisfaction of -performing important duties, and doing the sacred work to which he has -dedicated himself. - -Mr. Asquith, the new curate at Horton, had, however, but few of the -compensations. There was a very small number of young ladies in the -parish, and he was a young man who did not give himself to croquet or -archery, or any of the gentle games then in vogue; for the period of -which I speak was before the invention of lawn tennis. To none of these -things did he incline. He was ready to tramp along the country roads in -dust or in mud to carry consolation to any poor sick-bed. He was never -tired with examining schools, catechizing children, conducting little -cottage services; for those were the days when a high ritual was -unusual, and daily prayers were rare in the churches. He would even -interest himself in the village cricket, if need was, though awkwardly, -and not in a way which impressed the rustic eleven. As for the minor -organisations of the parish, the savings-banks, the clothing clubs, the -lending library, they had no existence until he came. - -The Rector frankly thought them quiet unnecessary; and Mrs. Prescott was -of opinion that to set them a-going was a dangerous thing, and might put -such a burden upon the next curate who should succeed Mr. Asquith as -that problematical individual might not care to bear; and of course, she -added, nobody could expect the Rector himself to be charged with the -fatigue of keeping all these new-fangled institutions up. - -Mr. Asquith paid little attention to these remonstrances. So long as he -had permission to do what he thought right, even if it were only a -formal permission, he was satisfied: and he went on working among his -poor people, with the greatest indifference to any of those solaces, in -the way of society and the making of friends, which are generally -supposed to sweeten the lot of his class. He said “Bother!” when he was -told that he was expected to be on certain occasions a guest at the -Rectory; and he said “What a bore!” when he was invited to dine at the -Hall. None of these delights tempted him. When John Prescott called on -him, as in duty bound, he found the curate busy among calculations, -planning out one of those village charities which were wanting in -Horton, and rather abstracted and preoccupied--dull, John said, who was -himself the dullest of men. - -“I said we might perhaps let him have a day’s thooting now and again,” -said John, who lisped a little. - -“And what did he say to that?” said Anna; for indeed the girls were -rather interested, and wanted to know what sort of person the new curate -was. - -“He thook his head,” said John; “and so he did when I asked if he was -fond of croquet. And then I thaid, was he musical?” - -“I hope he is musical,” said Sophie, “a violin would be such an -addition. What did he say when you asked him that?” - -“He thook his head again,” answered John. - -“Oh, what a horrid man!” - -“No, he’s not a horrid man; he’s a good fellow; but he’th dull--he’th -dull,” said John, with emphasis; it was when he wanted to be emphatic -that he lisped most. And as John was very dull himself, the sisters -concluded, not unreasonably, that the man in whom he discovered that -quality must be dull indeed. - -Mary, who was in the room, listened with some curiosity, too, though she -took no part in the conversation; and she was much amused to think that -in the world, and even in the parish, there could thus be a duller man -than John. Not that she was contemptuous of John for his dulness. She -liked him almost the best of the family. He was tiresome, to be sure; if -you were thrown upon him for society, it would not be cheerful society; -but then you were never thrown upon John--there was always somebody else -to talk, and show a little interest. And that he was tiresome was the -worst that could be said of him. He never forced his dulness upon any -one, as some do. He never wanted to be talked to, or amused, or taken -any notice of. His temper was as even, and the grey atmosphere about -him as tranquil as heart could desire. He was not clever, but he never -gave any trouble, and he could even be very kind when it came into his -head. - -“Ah, well,” said Sophie, “it cannot be helped. A new man might have been -an acquisition. He might have taught us some of the new rules for -croquet, or he might have played a new instrument, or he might have -sung. But it’s clear, from what John says, that he’s only the curate, -and there’s nothing more to say.” - -“I suppose,” said Anna, “he must be asked to dinner all the same.” - -But though they did this only as a matter of duty, they would all have -been extremely astonished, not to say offended, had they known that he -said “What a bore!” on receiving the invitation. He was at that moment -very much occupied about all the new things that he was setting up, -altogether indifferent to the consideration that the next curate might -not be of his way of thinking and might feel it a burden. Mr. Asquith, -however, never spoke of the possibility of a change, but seemed to -think that there never would be any other curate. He looked as though he -meant to go on forever bringing all his schemes to perfection. The -Rector could only afford to give him £100 a year and the use of the -cottage in which the curates always lived, with the very barest -furniture--merely what was necessary. But Mr. Asquith did not seem to -think either of the small stipend or the bare lodgings; he seemed only -to think of the work which he made so unnecessarily hard for himself. -And presently he was so absorbed in this work, and found so many things -to do, and set so many things going which nobody but himself took any -interest in, that he fell almost out of the knowledge of the more -important persons in the parish. They went their way, which was the -old-established, correct way for gentlefolks in a country parish to go, -in which they had gone long before he appeared, and would most likely go -long after he had disappeared; and he went his, which was novel and -new-fangled, and on the whole not a way approved of by the best people. -And though the parish was quite small, and you would have supposed that -all the educated persons belonging to the upper classes in it must have -jostled each other every day, the fact was that they went on in parallel -lines, as it were, without ever seeing each other. - -He went to the Rectory now and then, of course, as in duty bound, but -otherwise, when he was seen passing any of the chief houses in the -place, and a chance visitor asked who he was, “Oh, it is only the -curate,” was always the answer in Horton. This was really almost all -that any one knew of him. - -As a matter of fact, the Rector knew more, and all the world might have -known what his antecedents were. He was a man from the North, the son of -one of those sturdy small proprietors who are called statesmen in -Cumberland, or were called so in former times--born upon his own -paternal acres in a house which had belonged to his family for -generations, and thus possessing many of the advantages of ancient -lineage, though his was not what is called gentle blood. He had won a -scholarship at Oxford, and had made his way through the university -without, however, gaining any of those social advantages which, in the -eyes of many people, are the chief recommendations of these homes of -learning. He had not “made friends.” He had settled himself to his work -there with the same gravity as at Horton, and thought the finest “wines” -and the best company a bore. His talents did not lie in that way. He had -no genius for acquaintance, and though he liked the river very well for -relaxation, he never could be persuaded to make a business of it, as the -boating men did, or, indeed, to “go in” for anything except his work. -And even in his work he was not brilliant. His college set no high hopes -on his head. He made his way quite quietly, unobserved, very much as he -did at Horton, through those groves of Academe, generally to be found -out of the crowd, in paths not much frequented, busy always, caring -very little for pleasures by the way. As he got on, he became a little -better known as having “coached” very effectually, but with little -demonstration, several dunces for their smalls, and one or two better -men for special subjects, especially theology: and so came through that -part of his life with little fame, but such as it was, very good. Such a -man leaves an impression, faint but lasting, and which is not dependent -upon known and proved facts. This, indeed, is what almost everybody does -one way or other. We don’t know any harm that the good-for-nothing may -have done, but we become aware by something in the air that he is a -good-for-nothing; and we may have no act of virtue to set against a -man’s name, yet know that he is a good man by instinct, by an atmosphere -about him, something like a moral taste of which we cannot explain the -cause. - -Mr. Asquith had this kind of reputation, if it can be called a -reputation. He was poor; he had very little, if anything, more than the -£100 a year which Mr. Prescott, the Rector, gave him. He was accustomed -to spare living, and liked it, being unreasonably, and indeed wrongly, -indifferent to what he ate and drank, and quite unworthy of the good -cooking at the Rectory or the more pretentious efforts at the Hall. He -liked his own chop at home quite as well, even when he had, as was -sometimes necessary, to scrape off the cinders which it brought along -with it from the gridiron, before he ate it. Mr. Asquith thought this -was a very natural accident, and did not complain. - -Such a man is the only man altogether independent in our complicated -social system. He never remarked the ugly Kidderminster under his feet, -or wished for a Persian rug in its place. He did not mind in the least -when his clerical coat got shabby. What did it matter? Everybody knew -him on the one hand--nobody knew him on the other. In either case he was -indifferent, and consequently independent. If there was anything he was -a little particular over, it was his washing, his landlady said. The -landlady was an old servant at the Rectory, who had been provided for -in this curate’s house, and who knew the ways of the kind. But she had -never met with any like Mr. Asquith--no one who gave so little trouble, -or was so easily satisfied. - -But he was only the curate. Such qualities as his make little show. And -after a while the Prescotts almost forgot that there was such a person -in their neighbourhood. They said “How do you do, Mr. Asquith?” when -they met him at the Rectory or on the road; but after they had done -their duty by him, and asked him twice (which was really a superfluity -of attention), he dropped into his own sphere, and save at Uncle Hugh’s, -or in church, by accident, was seen of them no more. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER III. - -THE TWO TOGETHER. - - -The dinners at the Hall had not, however, been entirely without fruit in -the lives of the two inconsiderable people who first met there. Mary, it -may be supposed, had regarded with a little interest the appearance of -the stranger, who was quite a new thing in her life. Few strangers came -at Horton even when Percy was at home, and Percy had not been at home -since Mary had finally developed into a young woman, and been permitted -to wear a long frock and put up her hair; so that she had no -acquaintance with new faces, and the appearance of an individual -unknown, even though he was only the curate, aroused the liveliest -interest and curiosity in her. He was not a handsome man, but he had the -air of having a will and meaning of his own which is always attractive -to a woman, even though he did not sing, nor play upon any instrument, -nor know any games to speak of. These deficiencies did not affect Mary, -who only played a little upon the piano, and though she was constantly -called upon to make up her uncle’s rubber, and had in consequence a very -fair proficiency in whist, was not fond of games. Thus the remarks which -were made upon Mr. Asquith afterwards were, Mary thought, so unjust so -far beyond the measure of his delinquencies, even if he were a -delinquent, that in her thoughts she immediately constituted herself his -champion. In her thoughts, and a little in words too; she ventured to -say: “I don’t think he looks stupid at all,” when Anna and Sophie, after -the second entertainment to which he had been invited, broke forth -simultaneously into the outcry, “Oh, what a stupid man!” The sound of -this small voice, so unexpected, confounded the girls. They looked at -her in amazement, and then they laughed. - -[Illustration: “‘HERE IS MARY SETTING UP TO HAVE AN OPINION’” (_p. -35_).] - -“Why, here is a Daniel come to judgment,” cried Sophie, and “Here is -Mary setting up to have an opinion,” said Anna. It was the most amusing -thing that had happened for a long time. - -“Well, why shouldn’t Mary have an opinion?” said her uncle, “and about -the curate, too, which is a subject young ladies are always supposed to -understand.” - -“Mary must not trouble her head about curates,” said Mrs. Prescott. “She -is a great deal too young for any nonsense of that kind.” - -“Fancy calling Mr. Asquith nonsense!” cried both the girls again, with a -burst of laughter. They were not in the least interested, so that Mary’s -interference only amused them. If she had made herself the champion of a -more eligible visitor, Sophie and Anna might not perhaps have taken it -nearly so well. - -“He doesn’t look stupid, and there is no nonsense about him, and I think -he is very nice,” said Mary, but she was at that moment putting away her -work, and spoke very low, almost to herself, and nobody paid any -attention. She felt, however, a little excited at having thus, as it -were, taken up her position and declared her sentiments. She felt like -the champion of an injured but noble man--the defender of the -unfortunate. This gives a sense of generosity, of fine elation to the -mind. It seemed to Mary as if she were herself less insignificant in -being thus the champion of another. And it gave her an interest in Mr. -Asquith, which was entirely disinterested, but yet was akin, perhaps, to -a sentiment more warm, of which as yet Mary had never thought even in -her most romantic dreams. - -And by-and-by it came to pass that these two met not unfrequently upon -the roads, and sometimes in the cottages where Mary was often a visitor. -She went there sometimes on charitable errands, and sometimes from mere -kindness and liking for the good people, whom she had known all her -life. The charity was not Mary’s charity, it need hardly be said, for -she had nothing of her own to give. Mrs. Prescott was not rich nor very -interesting, nor a woman who talked much on any subject, especially upon -that of the poor and their claims: but she had a kind heart. When there -was a very nice pudding at luncheon, she almost always remembered that -poor Sally Williams, who was in “a deep decline,” and had no appetite, -might be tempted by a bit of it, or if the chicken was very tender, she -felt sure that old John Price, who had lost his teeth, or Mrs. Sims at -the almshouses, would like it. “I will just put this nice little piece -in a dish, and you will run down to the village with it, Mary,” she -would say, “as soon as you have finished, my dear.” - -“But why should Mary go?” some one remarked, at least three days out of -five. - -“She never has time to finish her luncheon,” said Mr. Prescott, who -loved a good meal. - -“And why can’t you send Pierce, mamma? I am sure she has always plenty -of time for her dinner, and never hurries for any one.” - -“Oh, my dears,” said kind Mrs. Prescott, “it tastes so much better when -one of the young ladies takes it. Pierce would only go because she was -obliged to go, and perhaps she would think it a bore, and fling it at -them, so to speak.” - -“I darethay Mary findth it a bore, too,” said John. - -“Oh, never!” Mary would say. She was not one who cared to spend a great -deal of time at table; and as soon as her aunt rose she was ready with -her basket. She went so lightly skimming down the long shady avenue, -like a bird or a fawn--but no--like nothing in the world, but a nice -little happy-hearted, light-footed girl, conscious of going on an errand -that would give pleasure, which is one of the sweetest, pleasantest, and -fairest of sights to be seen in the world. She liked the errand dearly; -she liked the little start of agreeable anticipation with which she was -received (though her appearance could scarcely be said to be unexpected, -it was so frequent), and the smile with which the invalid would greet -her, and that delightful consciousness that it tasted sweeter from her -kind little friendly hands than if Pierce had bounced in and thumped -the basket down on the table, and taken no pains about it. Pierce did -not always do this, but was kind, too, in her way. But nobody is quite -just in their estimate of others, and this was what Mary thought. - -And as often as not, Mr. Asquith would meet her on the way--sometimes as -she was going, sometimes coming; sometimes in the cottages, sometimes as -she came out smiling, with her empty basket. Of course Mr. Asquith gave -all the credit of what was in reality Mrs. Prescott’s kindness to her -little niece. He thought this practical little girl, with her basket, -acted on her own impulse, and that it was altogether out of the -tenderness of her own heart that she remembered the little fancies of -the sick. Most likely he thought that these little delicacies were saved -from her own share of the good things at the Hall, and never made -account of Mrs. Prescott at all in the matter; for nobody is quite just, -as has been said, and Mrs. Prescott was stout and entirely -uninteresting, and her under lip projected a little, so that people -sometimes thought her cross and sometimes sulky. But Mary was as bright -as the day, and the village people were all fond of her. “Oh, come in, -sir,” they said at first, when he lingered at the door, seeing a lady in -the room. “I will come again another day, Mrs. Williams, for I see you -have a visitor already.” “Oh, bless you, sir, come in, come in; why it’s -only Miss Mary,” the good woman would say, laughing with amused surprise -at the thought that on such a consideration the curate should be shy and -hold back. - -And in this way many meetings came about without either of the two being -aware that they were becoming used to seeing each other, and that a -little anticipation of this personal pleasure began to mingle with the -kindness of their original motives. - -When Mr. Asquith made the discovery that it was so, great discouragement -fell upon his mind, such as had never moved it before. For nothing of -the kind had ever before come in his hard-working way. What was Miss -Mary to him, or Miss anything? He was a poor man, far too poor to marry. -It had never occurred to him to think of his poverty before. Indeed, he -was not poor, for he had few wants, and could always do very well with -what he had; and he had never intended to marry, or thought of marrying. -He might even, indeed--it was very likely, have said some things in his -day about the iniquity of marrying when you have no means of supporting -a wife, much less children, and when in all likelihood you are betraying -some foolish girl who knows nothing of the world into lifelong penury, -labour, and privation. - -When he came to think of it, he felt sure that he had said many such -things: and was it possible that he was so lost to every sense of duty, -so forgetful of principle as to let himself fall into temptation in this -way, and probably, possibly--a thought which made his grave face -glow--lead another, another!--a young creature born to better fortune, -almost a child--into the same snare? To describe the state of agitation -into which the young man was brought by this sudden flash of perception -is not easy--the sweetness of it, the misery of it, the keen, poignant, -sharply-stinging delight. For though it was pain, it was delight, too. -To be able to make her love him, that sweet little girl, Mary! - -The world is hard, and it is bitter to give up, and to put a stop to -that rising current of new life is enough to tax all a man’s powers. But -when you have said everything that can be said in that respect, there -still remains the fact that the curate had, in one flash of -consciousness, a moment of delight which nobody could take from him. He -had tasted the sweetness, though the cup might not be for him; and then -he fell headlong into the bitter depths below. - -There must be no more of it, he said to himself, no more! And the first -thing he did was to shut himself up, to take to his books, to give up -his visiting; he would not even walk out for exercise save in the -evening, when he was sure he could not meet her? Sacrifice her because -he loved her? Oh no, never; such a thing could not be; but to sacrifice -himself, that was not so hard; he thought he could do that. Therefore he -departed from all his good ways as a parish priest, saying to himself -that it was only for a time, and praying God to pardon that temporary -neglect of duty because of the other more urgent duty which he must, he -must carry out, at whatever cost that might be. - -And Mary meantime had her own little thoughts, which nobody made much -account of, and which at the present moment nobody suspected. But what -those thoughts were wants a longer space than the end of this chapter to -say. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER IV. - -MARY’S LITTLE THOUGHTS. - - -Mary’s mind was supposed to be very youthful and unformed. She had been -kept longer a child than is usual, and yet, by reason of a sort of -solitude in which she lived in the midst of a family which was, yet was -not, absolutely her own family, her thoughts had exercised themselves -silently on many subjects not commonly considered by children; but all -in a shy and voiceless way, so that nobody round her had any conception -of many reasonings which had gone on in her mind. When Mr. Asquith came -to Horton she had been very curious about him, and when he failed to -interest the rest, he became still more a curiosity and interest to -Mary. - -Among the subjects which occupied her silent thoughts there had been -many little questions about the clergymen and their ways. As a matter of -fact clergymen were more frequent visitors at Horton than any other -class of men, and Mary had secretly been a critic of them all her life. -Her Uncle Hugh was a clergyman whom she saw perpetually. He was a parish -priest, with not very much to do, and one who was fully convinced that -he did his duty. But Mary was not equally convinced. There was a good -deal in his life which did not seem to that little critic to be much in -harmony with what she read in her New Testament. To be sure, she knew -well enough that every man who is in the Church can’t go wandering about -the world like St. Paul, teaching and preaching to the heathen. - -Mary was aware that the change of times must be taken into account, and -that the steady work of a parish has to be considered as well as the -romance of missionary devotion. But she could not quite reconcile Uncle -Hugh to the standard in which she believed, even after everything was -taken into account. He was too comfortable, too much at his ease, had -more spare time than he ought to have had, and, indeed, altogether was -too like Uncle John, who was the merely secular head of the family, than -satisfied the rigorous ideal of youth. There was indeed very little -difference between Uncle Hugh and Uncle John. The elder brother sat in a -little room which was called his business-room, whereas the special -retirement of the other was spoken of as the study: and the parson wore -a white tie instead of the cosy checked one which generally enveloped -the throat of the Squire, and a black coat instead of a shooting-jacket; -but during the week these were the chief differences between them. Mary, -all silent in the background, not considered by anybody to have an -opinion at all, arraigned these two before her private tribunal, and was -not satisfied, and concluded that there should have been a great deal -more difference. To be sure, on Sunday there was difference enough. -Uncle Hugh in his surplice was a commanding figure, and he preached -while Uncle John yawned and listened. He was not a very good preacher. - -None of these things are hid from the inexorable little judges from -seven to seventeen, who give us all our due. In her heart, though she -was fond of him, she was not satisfied with Uncle Hugh as a clergyman. -His bishop was very well satisfied, but not Mary. And the curates were -still less satisfactory. The High Church development was only in its -beginning in those days, and curates made little or no pretensions to -sacerdotal superiority, but were just young men in the Church, as their -brothers were young men in the army. They were very good-natured young -fellows most of them, very willing to give a shilling or even -half-a-crown to poor old Hodge--not quite so willing to administer -spiritual consolation or pray by his bedside--yet, by the aid of the -service for the visitation of the sick, getting manfully through that -too, and then, with a sigh of relief, coming up to croquet at the Hall. -They had always time for croquet, and took enormously long walks, and -had a considerable difficulty in getting through the long days in a dull -little place where, as they would sometimes complain, there was nothing -to do. Most of the young men who had been curates to Mr. Prescott of -Horton Rectory, left him with the best of recommendations; but little -Mary, that little Rhadamantha, had them all up at the bar before her, -and judged them severely, though she never said a word. - -But Mr. Asquith was something altogether new, and of a different order -of being. When John said he was dull, and the girls that there was -nothing in him, Mary demurred, as has been seen. She said to herself -that Mr. Asquith was nice, and she liked the looks of him; and having -thus, as it were, given herself from the first a brief in his defence, -it was not so easy to put on the judge’s cap and pronounce the verdict. -Something, perhaps, from the beginning softened that judgment. She -expected, to start with, that he would be different: and he was -different. The dinners at the Hall bored him, which was a pity; and he -would have none of the croquet, and instead of complaining that there -was nothing to do, his excuse was that he had not time enough for the -amusements which the young people of the parish set such store by. He -had not time. The other curates had not known what to do with their -time. Certainly he was different. - -And then Mary had begun to meet him about in all the cottages where -there were sick people, where there was special need of kindness and -help. He did not give away shillings, except rarely, for he had very few -to give. He was not a young man on his promotion, waiting till the -family living should be vacant, or till somebody should give him a -benefice, but had thrown himself into his work as if he never meant to -go away. Mary made some small investigations on this point in the most -innocent and natural way. She said to the Rector, “Uncle Hugh, I suppose -Mr. Asquith is going to stay longer than the other curates,” at a -moment when Mr. Prescott was unoccupied, and had time to answer the -question. - -“Eh?” cried the Rector, “Asquith stay longer? What makes you think so?” - -“He talks as if he were always to be here,” said Mary. - -“Oh, do you think so? This little girl is not such a fool as she looks,” -said his reverence. “I’ve noticed that too.” - -“Don’t speak to Mary so,” said Mrs. Hugh Prescott, who was somewhat -matter of fact. “She is not a fool at all, oh no; she has a great deal -of observation. But Mr. Asquith had better not deceive himself, Hugh, -for you know you have always liked a change of curates. Perhaps I had -better say a word----” - -The Rector’s wife was fond of saying a word, which generally made the -person addressed very angry, though she had no such meaning. Her husband -stopped her with a movement of his hand. “Don’t, my dear,” he said. “It -is not that he thinks too much of himself. He has not the prospects of -the other young men. He is not serving his apprenticeship here with the -hope of soon setting up for himself.” - -“You speak of the Church as if it were a trade, Hugh.” - -“Do I, my dear? Well, perhaps it is something the same after all, if you -think of it--for most people are looking out for something better. I -should not mind being a canon or a prebendary myself, or even a dean.” - -“And is not Mr. Asquith looking out for something better?” said Mary. -She was more interested in this question than in any other that could at -the moment be presented to her. - -“Poor fellow! I don’t know that he has anything better to look for,” -said the Rector. “He has few friends, and nobody to push him. I should -not wonder if he remained a curate all his life.” - -“Nobody does that nowadays,” said Mrs. Hugh Prescott. “Something always -turns up. A poor clergyman, so far as I can see, has just as many -chances as one that is well off. He is kind to somebody’s child, or -attends somebody’s mother on her deathbed, or something of that sort. -There is a special providence for poor curates, I think.” - -Mary took in all this with quick ears, and asked herself, whether, in -reality, a special providence was all that Mr. Asquith had to look to. -“There is none other that fighteth for us, but only Thou, O God,” we say -in church day by day: but even that pious sentiment seems to convey a -veiled opinion that other aid would be desirable: but when it is said of -a man that a special providence is wanted for his promotion, that man’s -hopes do not, to most of the world, seem particularly well founded. Mary -felt with a curious swelling of her heart that she was glad this was the -case with Mr. Asquith. She was proud of it, if pride is possible in such -a matter. When she tested him by the first great commission which sent -men out to preach without even bread in their scrip, much less money in -their purse--that test which no one had borne as yet--she felt that at -last here was one who could bear it; and this gave Mary a degree of -pleasure quite incommensurate with his stay in the parish, or of any -possible knowledge he could have of her, or she of him. After all she -had nothing at all to do with it; and what were his principles of -action, or how he was moved by the absence of all means of advancing -himself, she had not the least way of knowing. It might be this that -made him what John called dull. Mary could not tell. But she felt in her -heart, though she was so ignorant, that the real clergyman for whom she -had been looking had appeared at last--the only one who could bear the -test which had not succeeded at all with the rest of the curates, nor -even Uncle Hugh. - -And this was the conclusion which had been formed in her mind even -before she began to meet Mr. Asquith in the cottages. She was keenly -alive to his demeanour there. It was as if she had gone to collect -evidence upon this subject. When she was giving poor Sally Williams her -pudding, she was at the same moment mentally weighing the curate and his -manners to poor Mrs. Williams, and making him out. Perhaps Mary was not -quite an impartial judge, being biassed, as has been said, by the other -pieces of evidence which she had already put together, and even by -something more subtle still, by her own foregone conclusion, and certain -weakening prepossessions that had stolen into her heart. But about the -time when Mr. Asquith took fright and began to shut himself up and -relinquish his visits to the cottages, Mary had completed all her -investigations, or had forgotten them, or had come to think them the -most unnecessary, the most impertinent of inquiries, having somehow -suddenly and unconsciously been led to the conclusion that there was -nobody like Mr. Asquith, and that whatever he did became, from the fact -of his doing it, right. It gave all the more weight to her opinion in -this respect that she was not, as has been seen, a girl who naturally -believed in curates, or took the excellence of that class for granted, -as some young women do. It was, however, a somewhat severe test of -Mary’s faith that almost simultaneously with her full conviction of it, -this perfect man should suddenly begin to conduct himself in so strange -a way. For she could not help being struck by the fact that she met him -no longer, even had the poor people been silent on the subject, which -they were not. They poured out their complaints to her, sometimes quite -simply, sometimes with a little mischievous meaning. “Mr. Asquith? We -haven’t seen Mr. Asquith, no--not for ten days; him as used to come in -and give my poor Sally a comfor’able word ’most every day. I don’t know -what’s the cause. I only hope, Miss Mary, as we’ve done nothing to -offend him. It ain’t with our will if we has, for a kinder gentleman -never come inside my door.” - -“Oh, no, Mrs. Williams, I am sure he would not take offence. Perhaps he -is very busy; you know a clergyman--has to study a great deal,” said -Mary, pausing to pick up the first excuse that came handy. - -Mrs. Williams shook her head. “If it had been most clergymen,” she said, -“I shouldn’t have wondered, for they soon tires--but Mr. Asquith! oh, he -did seem another sort, he did!” the poor woman cried. - -And then old Mrs. Sims at the almshouses had her little word to put in: -“I can’t think what’s come over Mr. Asquith, that was such a kind -gentleman. He’s not come no more since the last time as he met you here, -Miss Mary. It couldn’t be as a fine, tall gentleman like ’im was afraid -of you.” - -“Why should anyone be afraid of me?” Mary cried, with a laugh. But she -was glad to get outside that keen-sighted old woman’s cottage, for she -felt the heat of a coming blush which swept all over her, up to the very -roots of her hair, a blush which sent all her blood coursing through her -veins, and made her feel disposed to laugh again, and then to cry. -Afraid of her! Why should any one, much less the curate, be afraid of -her, a little person who was only Mary, and whom nobody made any -account of? But as she asked herself that question, Mary knew that it -was so. She knew with a sudden flash of discovery, which was very -wonderful and sweet, that Mr. Asquith was afraid of her, of loving her, -and of betraying he loved her; and that he was making a stand against -his heart and trying to avoid her, and put her out of his life. It was a -tremendous, overpowering discovery; but after she had got accustomed to -the thought, Mary once more laughed in her heart; for she knew by -instinct, though she had never had any experience, that these tactics -were never successful, and that in this endeavour Mr. Asquith would -fail. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER V. - -SELF-BETRAYED. - - -Of course Mary proved right. In such a small parish as Horton it was -quite impossible that two people could live for many weeks without -meeting each other. The curate might shut himself up for a few days. He -might say he was busy with his sermon; he might say he had a headache; -he might acknowledge that his activity in the parish and all the -institutions he had set up had thrown him into arrears with his reading, -and such intellectual work as is necessary for a man who has to write -two sermons every week. But this could not last for ever. Mary, who was -so simple and so sweet, was not like those powers of darkness whom we -must resist till they flee from us; indeed, Mary was so far different -that when she was resisted she did not flee. She was so clever that she -divined at once that in resisting the charm of her mild society poor Mr. -Asquith had made a confession of his weakness, and it gave her a great -and, it is to be feared, a mischievous amusement to watch how long he -would keep to that. Alas! he could not keep to it very long. He was -obliged to go to the rectory to communicate with his chief, and he could -not help meeting Mary there. He had even to walk with her as far as the -lodge, to carry something that was too heavy for her, and then Mary -behaved very badly to the poor curate. She put on an air of sympathy to -conceal her amusement, and she said, “I am afraid you have not been well -lately, Mr. Asquith. I have not seen you anywhere about.” - -“No,” said the curate, with his heart sinking, “I have been--not very -well.” - -“I am so sorry,” said the little hypocrite. “I hope you don’t find that -Horton does not suit you: and just when you have got so well into the -work.” - -“Oh, it is not that it doesn’t suit me,” the curate said, “quite the -reverse. The air is very pure and sweet.” He gave a side glance at her -as he spoke, and it is to be feared that it was Mary and not the air he -was thinking of when he used these words. - -“Poor Sally Williams is longing to see you,” said Mary. “I go often, but -I am not the same good. She likes her pudding, but I can’t talk to her -as you do, Mr. Asquith; and they say,” continued the girl, with a soft -shade of awe coming over her face, “that she has not very long to live.” - -“You teach me my duty,” cried the curate, quite overwhelmed. “I have -been very neglectful. I shall certainly not miss another day.” - -“And old Mrs. Sims thinks you have forgotten the old people at the -almshouses. She shakes her head and says, ‘Ah, I never thought as he’d -keep it up like that: they never does,’ Mrs. Sims says.” - -“Thank you so much for telling me,” said Mr. Asquith; “indeed it was not -inadvertence. I knew that I was neglecting one duty: but I thought, -perhaps, it might be excusable on account of another.” - -“Oh, Mr. Asquith!” cried Mary, “I never meant to say you neglected -anything, you must not think so. But ought a person to neglect one duty -on account of another? You said the other day in your sermon----” - -“Oh! don’t talk to me about my sermon. It was a poor performance off the -book, when I had no experience; but you are right, we have no warrant to -forget one duty for the sake of another. The part of a true man is to do -all, and not to flinch. The spirit is willing, but oh! the flesh is very -weak.” - -I hope the reader will not think badly of Mary if I allow that the -agitation of the curate filled her with a sort of elation and -mischievous triumph for the moment. She had nearly laughed in the face -of his gravity, and if she had done what was in her heart she would have -cried out, “All this bother about a little girl like me!” But she did -not say anything; she did not laugh; and when she looked up into his -face for a moment at the lodge-gate, when he gave the books he was -carrying for her to Mrs. Martingale, the coachman’s wife, to be sent up -to the house, Mary was filled with sudden compunctions, and felt -disposed rather to cry. She waved her hand to him as she went up the -avenue with an April sort of face, half smiling, half weeping, which -gave him a great deal of thought as he turned sadly upon his own way. He -did not know what it meant, poor young man! It looked as if she were -sorry for him, but why should she be sorry for him? Did she see, did she -understand, the cause of his trouble? did she mean to support him with -her sympathy, or to mock him, or to show him how far, far he was out of -her sphere? He thought a great deal more about this than was at all -consistent with the many other things he had to think of, and, alas! -got the books of the lending library entirely into disorder, and forgot -how much money he had received that week from the penny-bank and the -clothing-club. He put down twice as much as they had paid to each -subscriber’s name, and had to make it up from his own poor little purse; -fortunately the entire amount was not considerable, but it was a great -deal too much to be taken out of his poor pocket by Mary’s little -regretful, sympathetic, yet mischievous look. - -To tell the truth, Mary’s heart was bounding along the avenue like a -bird, though her feet went soberly enough. It was so light, there was no -keeping it still; it sang little trills of pleasure along the way, and -mounted up towards heaven, and found a new brightness over all the -earth. To think that she who was only Mary should suddenly have become -the princess of a kingdom all her own--to think that she should be all -at once of consequence enough to make a man abandon all his duties! It -was indeed very wrong of a man in Mr. Asquith’s position to abandon any -of his duties for the sake of this little girl: but Mary did not see it -in that light. As she walked by herself up the avenue she laughed loud -out, and then felt dreadfully ashamed of herself, and dried her eyes, -which were full of tears. How foolish it was of him! To say even to -herself that this man, who was the best man she had ever met, was -foolish, was a sort of delightful little sin to Mary, a piece of -profanity--a small wickedness. How dared she say he was foolish? and -yet--oh! how foolish he was. How nice of him to be so silly! Perhaps he -was afraid that she did not care for him, would not have him if he asked -her? No doubt that was what he was afraid of. To think that he knew -Latin and Greek and theology, and all manner of things, and could read -German, yet could not read what was in Mary’s eyes! She sat down by the -roadside, before the house was in sight, not daring to see anybody, glad -to be alone, to have time to think over again what he said and how he -looked, and to say to herself how silly it was! - -All this time, as will be seen, Mary had not the faintest enlightenment -as to what it was that Mr. Asquith feared. She never thought of his -poverty, of what it is to be a poor curate or a poor curate’s wife, -without hope of advancement, or money enough to keep the wolf from the -door. She thought only of him, and how glad she would be to do -everything for him--to live in a cottage, and look after her own little -housekeeping, and make him comfortable, more comfortable than ever he -had been in his life, and to help him and work with him. She thought -that to be the first in all the world to one who was the first in all -the world to her, was the fairest fate that earth could give. She had no -doubt on the subject, or fear--for how could she tell, who had never had -above a few shillings in her life, how much two people require to live -upon? or how could she take into consideration other consequences, which -were more serious still? - -Mr. Asquith went to see Sally Williams that day, and for many days -after, as long as the poor girl lived, but never again did he meet Mary -there. He did not see her at the almshouses, he encountered her -nowhere--which indeed was a little instinctive coquetry mingled with -modesty on Mary’s part: for she would not, after having exerted herself -to bring him back, allow him to find her in his way, as if that had been -what she wanted. And now it was the curate’s turn to be astonished, and -to feel himself injured. Though he had retired from his daily duties in -order to avoid Mary, he felt himself sadly aggrieved, now that he had -returned to them, to find that Mary avoided him. Instead of -congratulating himself that they were both of accord, and that in this -way his purpose would be the better accomplished, this inconsistent -young man felt sadly disappointed, taken in, cheated, and ill-used. Why -had she spoken to him so, if she had meant to conclude their intercourse -in this way? Mr. Asquith’s annoyance was all the greater from the fact -that Mary did not neglect her little offices of charity in order to -avoid him as he had done in order to avoid her. She was cleverer than he -was, so far as this went, and had her faculties more free. He was always -hearing wherever he went that Miss Mary had just gone. “It is not five -minutes since Miss Mary went. She is that good,” said poor Mrs. -Williams, “now that my poor girl is sinking, she never misses a day.” -“You’re kindly welcome, Mr. Asquith, sir,” said the old woman at the -almshouse. “Take that chair, sir. It’s one as was set for Miss Mary. She -was scarce gone when I see you coming.” Mr. Asquith was fretted beyond -description by these perpetual missings. He could not get them or her -out of his head. Sometimes he was more angry than words can say. He -thought she did it on purpose (which was not far from the truth), in -order to show him how presumptuous he was, and how impossible that she -could ever care for him (which was not the truth at all). And at last -the poor curate was wrought to such a point of exasperation that he -made up his mind, when he did meet her, that he would tell her what she -had done, and how cruelly she had treated him, and then leave the parish -altogether. But he would not go without letting her know. She should be -made aware that what was sport to her was death to him. To have wrung a -man’s heart and spoiled his life might appear to her a small matter, but -the curate was resolved that so far he would have his revenge, since he -could have nothing else, and that she should know what she had done. - -They met at last quite accidentally, in the quietest road, where their -interview was certain not to be disturbed by any intruder. At least, it -can scarcely be said that they met; he was jogging wearily, determinedly -along, thinking how he never saw her, and how he must see her, once at -least, before the end of all things, when suddenly the grey frock he -knew so well appeared round the corner of a cross road, and Mary, not -seeing him, went on before him, tranquilly, on her way home. The -curate’s heart stood still. Should he, now that the matter was in his -own hands, put off the crisis? Should he have it out now once for all? -After standing still for that one moment, his heart bounded up into his -throat, wildly beating, and in a long stride or two Mr. Asquith was at -Mary’s side. - -And now for the vials of wrath that were to be poured out, the passion -of love and reproach that was to end all their intercourse, and with it -that glimpse of a sweeter life which had come suddenly to the curate in -Horton! But when he came up with her he was breathless, partly from -haste, partly from agitation, and it was Mary who said the first word. -She looked up into his face surprised and smiling, with a sweetness that -went to his very heart. There was no guilty consciousness in her eyes. -She did not look at him as one who had sinned against him, as one who -felt that he had something to reproach her with, but with a look of -pleasure, as if she were quite happy in this unexpected meeting. “Oh, -Mr. Asquith, is it you? What a long time it is since I have seen you!” -she said, in her pleasant voice. - -“It is a long time,” said the curate, panting: and then he added, “I -fear I have made you change your hours and your habits, which is more -than I am worth.” - -“Change my hours and my----. I haven’t got any hours or habits,” cried -Mary, “and indeed I don’t know what you mean.” - -“Oh, Miss Mary!” he cried. I don’t think he knew her surname at all, or -if he once knew it he had forgotten it, for Mary was the only name he -ever heard given to her. “Oh, Miss Mary!” he cried, “I never meet you -now in any of the cottages wherever I go: and I know how that is. I know -that you have seen what was going on in my presumptuous mind: but there -was no presumption in it, if you only knew. I know very well I am -poor--as poor as--as poor as a church mouse, as people say,--too poor to -ask any woman to share my miserable fortunes. Don’t, don’t for heaven’s -sake be afraid of me! If I can’t help thinking of you, at least I can -help saying it. I gave up my visiting when I saw what was coming: but -you spoke to me yourself on that subject. You said, had a man a right to -neglect his duty for the sake of--for the sake of---- And I knew that -what you said was just. From that day I made up my mind to go on with -all my usual visiting, and to go on seeing you, which was always sweet -though cruel; to go on as if it did not matter, only never to say a -word----” - -“And what has made you change your resolution, Mr. Asquith?” said Mary, -very demurely, without raising her eyes. - -“Change? I have not changed at all,” he said. And then he stopped short, -with a look of misery and confusion. “What have I done?” he said. “What -have I done? though I did not intend it--it has been too much for me--I -have betrayed myself after all!” - -And for a moment he turned his back upon her, as if he would have fled. - -“Don’t run away,” said Mary, softly touching his arm with her hand. “Why -shouldn’t you tell me--whatever you wanted to tell me?--if you did -really want to tell me anything,” she said. - -“Oh, Mary!” cried the curate, and paused; for the words came so fast -upon him that he did not know which to say first. - -“Yes?” said Mary softly, giving him one little sidelong glance: and then -her face crimsoned over, and she drooped her head, but still with a -modest note of interrogation in the turn of her fine little pink ear. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER VI. - -PARADISE LANE. - - -“We must tell them all directly,” Mary said. - -“Tell them!” cried the curate. For one brief half hour he had forgotten -everything, and given himself up to that delight which once in his life -every man has a right to--or so at least we think when we are young--the -delight of loving and being loved. The bare country road had turned into -Paradise, into Elysium for both of them; it was more beautiful and sweet -than anything out of heaven. The green boughs waved softly between them -and the celestial blue above, making a chequer-work of sun and shade -that flickered and danced, and made the very dust under their feet -happy; and as for the flowers in the hedgerows, no roses were ever so -sweet. They walked upon enchanted ground, and all nature sang soft -hymns of praise over their happiness, which was sweeter than the roses, -or anything that earth, our homely foster-mother, can give. She was -wistfully glad of it, that brown and faithful nurse, that mother earth, -who could strew flowers at their feet, but could not bestow such -blessedness. But when Mary said those simple words, the world, which had -nothing to do with that hour, suddenly rolled its great shadow round, -coming between the curate and the sunshine of heaven. “Tell them!” he -said, and his countenance fell. Oh yes, he knew very well they must be -told: but he had been able to forget it for that moment of delight. - -“Yes, tell them. You meant that?” said Mary, looking up somewhat alarmed -in his face. - -“Oh yes, I meant that,” he said with a groan--“at least, I didn’t mean -anything. I never meant to tell _you_, let alone them.” - -“So you said,” Mary remarked, in her demure way; “you told me you had -made up your mind not to tell me----” and she laughed in the pleasure -of her maiden power. - -“Oh, my darling!” the curate said, “it would have been better if I had -not told you. It would have been better if I had gone away, and -smothered my heart or myself, if necessary, rather than have brought -this trouble on you.” - -“Trouble!” she cried, and laughed. Mary was not a bit afraid. She was as -ignorant as the bird who was singing little saucy songs and melodious -gibes at them overhead, calling on all his bird neighbours to make fun -of the lovers, who had waited for June and full summer, instead of -building their nests like prudent folk in the early spring. Mary knew -about as much as the thrush did on the subject of ways and means--and -she was not afraid. - -“They will not hear me speak,” he said; “they will ask me how I could -dare to think of dragging you down into my poverty? I know that is what -they will do--and they will be right,” he added with a great sigh. - -Mary paused a little in surprise, and then she asked, “I wonder what you -think I am? Do you think I am rich?” - -“No,” he said, pressing her hand close to his side. “Thank heaven! I -know you are not rich.” - -“I see very little to thank heaven about,” said Mary, “on that score: -perhaps you think that I have great prospects, or that somebody is going -to leave me a great deal of money, or--something. Why, I have not a -penny in the world! And my aunt is always shaking her head and saying, -‘If anything happens to your uncle!’ Do you know what I should have to -do then? I should have to go out as a governess, if anybody would have -me to teach their children--or perhaps as a maid in the nursery.” - -“Oh, hush!” he cried. “You a maid in the nursery! But, Mary darling, you -would be almost better as a governess than you will be with me. Do you -know how much I have a year? A hundred pounds and my lodging, and I -don’t know where I am to get any more.” - -“A hundred pounds! I never had a hundred shillings of my own. It seems -quite a great sum,” said Mary. “I should think we could do very well -upon that. We must have a cottage of our own though. I have often -thought a cottage might be made very pretty if one were to take a little -trouble. I should like it so much better than a big house.” - -“Oh, Mary, you little angel! You have just come astray out of heaven, -and you know nothing about this hard world,” he cried. - -“Oh, don’t I?” said Mary, with a laugh of superior wisdom,--“much more -than you do, I am sure, though you are so much cleverer than I. We could -not have many servants, that’s true. But what is the good of -them--except to get in each other’s way, and make aunt cross? I’ll tell -you what I shall have. I’ll have a nice strong big girl out of the -schools, and train her myself: and you’ll see, after a while, all the -ladies will be contending to get one of the girls whom Mrs. ----” - -Here Mary paused, and blushed redder than ever, and with a cough turned -her head away. - -“Finish your sentence,” said the happy curate, too happy for the moment -to remember how foolish it was. “Mrs. ----? Finish what you were going to -say.” - -“You know well enough,” said Mary, who in the delightful fervour of -settling everything had thus been carried away so much farther than she -intended. She added after a moment in a lower tone, “You know it is a -very funny name.” - -“I think now it is the sweetest name in the world. Mary Asquith,” he -said--“Mrs. Asquith--I prefer it to any in the world.” - -“Well,” said Mary, considering, “it has this for it, that it is not just -like anybody’s name. It has a great deal of character in it. You don’t -forget it as soon as you have heard it, like Smith or Brown.” - -“It is an old name,” he said, with a little pride, “and one very well -known in Cumberland, and known only for good, Mary. But,” he added -suddenly, after this outburst, “you are not to suppose that I am -claiming to belong to a great family. Oh no, we are only yeomen; we are -not equal to the Prescotts. We have an old house, which will be my -brother’s, but not like Horton--a homely old place, no better than a -farmhouse. That is another thing that will be against me,” he said, his -voice sinking out of its happiness and pride into subdued tones. - -“There cannot be anything against you,” said Mary, giving a little -pressure to his arm. “Do you think I am such a prize? They will be glad, -I shouldn’t wonder, to get me off their hands; my poor aunt will not -have to say any more, ‘Mary, if anything happens to your uncle!’ I shall -have my own--person,” she said, pausing for a word, and laughing over -it, “my own--person to take care of me--and what more does any girl -require?” - -Mr. Asquith was cheered, and yet not quite cheered, by these -encouragements. He was very happy, and yet quite miserable. Nothing -could take away from him the delight and glory which had fallen upon -him out of heaven in that homely green lane of Paradise. But--his mind -made a leap forward, or backward rather, to the things he had seen, to -the facts of life which he knew, to the hard, hard existence of poverty. -Had any man a right to drag down a woman, a girl so gently bred as Mary, -into that gulf? had any man a right to bring children into the world -with no bread to give them? He had held very distinct views upon this -subject, and had sworn to himself that he never would so sin against the -innocent, against the unborn. How often had he seen what followed in -other poor clerical houses! He had seen the pretty young bride, all -unthinking, all unfearing, pleased with her little house, and her -married dignity, dragged down into a careworn troubled woman, a -hard-working woman, with rough hands and a burdened mind, manual labour, -and mental care, her strength and her heart both failing as the heavy -years went on. To think of Mary, so young and sweet, so thoughtless and -lighthearted, so ignorant, bless her! of all these horrible realities, -sinking, sinking year by year into such a woman--and by his means! The -curate shrank within himself, his heart seemed to contract with a great -pang. By his means! all because he could not contain himself, could not -keep silent; could not love her without betraying his love. Oh, what a -thing it was, that highest of human sentiments, that it could not curb a -man’s tongue, or restrain his impulses! That a man should love and yet -not be able to keep silent, to spare the object of his love! He might -have loved her all his life, and his love would have been a sweetness -and a strength to him; but he ought to have respected her innocence and -her youth, and never have told it, locked it up in his own bosom. If he -had never spoken, God bless her! that would have given her a pang: but -had he gone away, in a little time she would have forgotten him. But -now, there could be no forgetting--now there was no going back--and she -herself would insist upon the consummation of this sacrifice, upon -giving him the solace of her sweet companionship, making him happy, -making herself a servant, enduring toil, and privation, and care for his -sake. For the curate knew that, whatever any one might say, it was the -woman that had the worst of it. He would have to submit that she should -be his servant, executing even menial offices, with those hands which he -might kiss and reverence, but whose work he could not do. The woman had -the worst of it: and he knew so many cases,--some where she had sunk -altogether into a half cook, half nurse--a careworn creature spoiled -with toil; and some in which she had developed into a patient angel, -sacred and consecrated in her labours and sufferings. Mary would be -that, the lover thought; and yet, who could tell that she would be that? -and who could dare to open to a woman’s feet that path of tears and bid -her tread it, whatever might await her at the end? He went home to his -lodgings with his heart bleeding, although his brain was giddy with -happiness, and with the desire to believe that in his case there might -be a difference, and that, for once, for once, all precedents -notwithstanding, things might go well. - -As for Mary, there never was a lighter heart than that with which she -ran up the avenue, in too great a flutter and ferment to walk steadily, -too happy to keep still. She felt as if she had wings, as if she trod -upon air, and burst out singing, as she ran along under the trees, from -pure joy. She had got her little promotion, the only promotion of which -her life was capable. She had got her own world, her own life, her own -share of the universe of God. To be sure she had been happy enough all -her life, but how colourless that life looked amid the light and -sunshine that streamed upon this! “Only Mary” in a house full of people -was more important, and Mrs. Asquith in her own house, the dispenser of -happiness, the little monarch of all she surveyed! What a difference! -What a difference! These were the secondary matters, the first beyond -all comparison being _him_, the man out of all the world whom God had -chosen for Mary. It seemed to her that a whole long chain of special -providences had brought them together. That he should have come here, of -all places in the world--he for whom every parish in England would have -competed had they but known. That he should have come to the Hall, and -yet not fallen in with the ways of the Hall, or fallen in love with Anna -or Sophie, which would have been so much more likely. That he should -have met her, and liked her, Mary, the little one who was of no account, -best! Could such things have happened had not the heavens specially -interested themselves, and taken unusual trouble to bring it all about? -Even the meeting this morning was providential, for she was to have gone -off on a visit the very next day, and in the meantime a hundred things -might have happened to close his mouth. And to think that he should have -been so frightened to speak. Oh, how foolish men were sometimes, though -they were also so clever! What great prospects did he suppose she could -have to make him not good enough for her? Not good enough for her! It -was almost with a little shriek of happiness, and scorn, and admiration -that Mary commented to herself upon his intentions and his -self-reproaches. The foolish fellow! the darling! the noble, humble, -good!--everybody but himself knowing how much too good for her he was. - -Women have a great deal to bear in this world. Their lot is in many -respects harder than that of men, and neither higher education, nor the -suffrage, nor anything else can mend it. But there is one moment at -least in which a girl has always the best of it, and that is when she -has just accepted her lover. At that blissful epoch she has all the -pleasure, with little or nothing of the care. It is he who has to -encounter the anxious father or careful trustee. He has to meet the -scoff with which those personages receive the trembling announcement of -a small, a very small income. He has to think where the money is to come -from to set up the new household. She has the best of it for once in -her life. Afterwards the tables are turned. Not always, perhaps, but -very often; and always, I am inclined to think, when poverty is the lot. - -But Mary thought of none of all these things; with her it was all -sunshine. She could scarcely keep from bursting out with her great news -to everyone she met. To sit down at lunch and eat as if nothing had -happened was almost an impossibility. If they only knew! They might have -known, indeed, had they looked at her, that something had happened. But -nobody took any notice. A slight accident had happened to John, of which -he was discoursing at great length. “I thlipped,” he said, “on the -grass; there was nothing to make me thlip that I could see. It was -thlippery with the rain, or because Morton had mowed it this morning. It -was the strangest thing I ever thaw. On the grass--the thimplest thing! -But I might have thprained my ankle. Yes, I might. I can’t think how I -didn’t thprain my ankle,” said John. - -“But you didn’t, you see, so it doesn’t matter,” said his father. - -“He might have, though; and what a thing that would have been!” Mrs. -Prescott remarked, who was more sympathetic, and had a great leaning to -her eldest son. - -“Yes, it would have been a very bad busineth,” said John. - -And that was the sort of talk that was going on while Mary sat beaming, -and nobody found her little secret out. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER VII. - -THE DISCLOSURE. - - -Mr. Prescott spread himself out before the fireplace, standing with his -legs apart, and his coat tails extended. There was, of course, no fire -in the month of June, but an Englishman spreading himself out upon his -own hearthrug, like a cock on his appropriate elevation, is more an -Englishman than at any other moment. The Squire looked benevolently, yet -severely upon the curate, who sat before him, twisting his soft hat in -his hands. This was the only sign of embarrassment Mr. Asquith showed, -but it was very discernible. He sat with his face turned towards his -judge, without any shrinking or quailing, a little pale, very -self-possessed and quiet. It was a very serious moment, and that the -curate well knew. - -“My niece!” Mr. Prescott said, and his countenance cleared a little, for -he had thought at first that it must be one of the princesses of his -house that this man was wooing. “Mary! why, Mary is not old enough for -this sort of thing. How old is she? Why, she is only a child!” - -“You have got used to considering her a child, Mr. Prescott; but I -believe she is one-and-twenty, if you will inquire.” - -Mr. Prescott made a calculation within himself, and after a moment said, -“So she is: I believe she is in her two-and-twentieth year. Who would -have thought it! You must know,” he added, “Mr. Asquith--though I don’t -know what your ideas may be on that subject--that though Mary is my -niece, she has no money, not a penny. My sister was sadly imprudent in -her marriage. Her orphan child, of course, had a home with me, but there -is nothing in the way of fortune, not a sou.” - -“So I understood,” said the curate, “otherwise I should never have -ventured to approach her, being myself so poor a man.” - -“Ah!” said the Squire, looking at him doubtfully; then he added with -cheerfulness, “You are still on the first step, Mr. Asquith, there is no -telling how far you may go.” - -“I am not the stuff of which bishops are made,” said the curate, with a -short laugh. - -“Well, there is no telling,” said the other; and then he entered upon -business. “You will understand,” he said, “that I must make certain -inquiries before going any farther. In the matter of family now. We are -not rich people, but in that respect we Prescotts have certain -pretensions----” - -“In that respect it is very easy to answer you, Mr. Prescott. So far as -old family goes, mine is old enough. We have been in Cumberland in -direct descent, father and son, settled in the same place, for three -hundred years. But----” Mr. Prescott had been nodding his head in -approval, saying to himself that he knew Asquith was a good name in the -North. He looked up, but only with the faintest shadow on his face, at -the curate’s “but.” - -“But,” repeated Mr. Asquith firmly, “though we are an old-established -race, we are not what you would call gentry, Mr. Prescott. My father is -of the old class of statesmen in Cumberland----” - -“What is that?” asked the Squire hastily. - -“It is, I suppose, what you call yeomen in the South.” - -“Oh!” said Mr. Prescott. He recovered from this shock, however, in -shorter time than might have been expected; for a substantial yeoman is -a very respectable personage, and there are often nice little hoards of -money behind them; and then it was only Mary, after all. - -“I don’t pretend to say that I should not have been better pleased had -you sprung from a family of gentry, Mr. Asquith; but after all, to have -a family of any kind is something in these days. And you, of course, -have had the education of a gentleman.” The curate winced a little at -this, not liking the idea that he had not always been a gentleman, even -though he had the moment before disowned any such pretensions. But he -did not betray his impatience, and Mr. Prescott continued, “The most -important point is: you propose to marry my niece: what have you to -support her? I have told you she has nothing of her own. Are you in -circumstances to keep her in the position to which she has been -accustomed? Your private means----” - -“Mr. Prescott,” said the curate crushing his hat in his tremulous hands, -“that is exactly the question--that is the painful part--I have nothing. -I have no private means; I have no expectations to speak of. My father, -when he dies, will leave me perhaps some trifle--a few hundred pounds; -but the fact is, I have nothing--nothing but my income from my curacy.” -He had not strength enough to meet the Squire’s astonished gaze. His -head drooped forward a little. “I am aware that you must think me -presumptuous to the last degree, even careless of her comfort--for I -have nothing but my poverty to offer--nothing----” for once in his life -Mr. Asquith’s courage fairly failed him, and he would have liked to run -away, and be heard of in Horton no more. Oh, happy Mary, before whom no -such ordeal lay! - -“This is a very strange statement, Mr. Asquith,” the Squire said. - -The curate assented with a movement of his head; he could not say any -more. - -“It is a very strange statement,” Mr. Prescott repeated. “You don’t -expect, I hope, that I--with the many calls upon me----” - -Mr. Asquith half got up from his chair; he raised his hand, half -deprecating, half indignant. - -“I have a great many claims upon me,” said the Squire reassured; “the -estate does not bring in half it once did. You know as well as I do how -landed property has deteriorated; and my second son is in the army, and -has a great many expenses, and my girls to be provided for--I cannot be -responsible for anything so far as Mary is concerned. I have given her -her education and all that, but as for any allowance----” - -“If she had anything of the sort, do you think I could ever have -spoken?” the curate said. - -Mr. Prescott was reassured: there was obvious sincerity in this -disclaimer. He stood for a moment silent with a perturbed countenance, -and then he said suddenly, “That’s all very well, Mr. Asquith, but -you’re not like a silly girl who knows nothing--you’ve some acquaintance -with the world. It is quite right of you to express such sentiments. But -if you marry her, how are you to keep her? that is the question for me.” - -“Sir,” said the curate, “you have a right to say anything--everything on -that subject. It _is_ the question, I know all the gravity of it. It is -what I cannot answer even to myself.” - -“If you would not have spoken in the other case, supposing she had -something of her own--how was it that you spoke now?” said the Squire, -pushing his advantage; “a man ought to be able to deny himself in such -circumstances. Men of your cloth permit themselves freedoms which other -poor men don’t. A parson marries and has a large family, and everybody -is sorry for him, whereas, if it was a poor soldier who did it, or a -clerk in a public office, or----” - -The curate did not speak, it was all perfectly true. He had said the -same himself a hundred times. He had said, even to the unfortunate -culprit himself, that a clergyman, because he was a clergyman, had no -right. And now it was brought home to himself, and he had not a word to -say. - -“What does my brother Hugh give you?” said the inexorable Squire. “A -hundred a year? I suppose it is as much as he can afford. And how are -you to live with a wife on a hundred a year? How do you live on it -without a wife? Percy, besides his pay, costs me--but that is nothing to -the purpose. I ask you, can you live on it yourself, Asquith, without -any supplement, without anything from home?” - -The curate smiled somewhat grimly. Anything from home! He had been -obliged to pay back to his poor father various sums expended on his -education, which was a very different thing from receiving help from -home. He said, “I have been able to manage--without any assistance,” in -a subdued tone. It was not pleasant to be thus cross-examined, but the -Squire had a right to ask all manner of questions. He had put himself in -Mr. Prescott’s power. - -“Supposing you have--I think it’s very much to your credit. And there’s -the lodgings, of course, that’s always something. But supposing you -have--how are you to keep a wife? And have you thought of the -consequences, sir?” said the Squire severely. “If it was only a wife -even; but you know what always follows--half-a-dozen children before you -know where you are. How are you to educate them, sir? How are you to -feed them? How are you to set them out in the world? And yet you come -and ask me, a man that has seen such things happen a hundred times, to -give you my niece.” - -Mr. Asquith blushed like a girl at this suggestion. Mary herself was -scarcely more modest, more delicate in all such embarrassing questions. -And though he was not a humorous man by nature, a gleam of the ludicrous -made its way into the question through the fierce countenance of the -Squire. “These consequences,” he said, “cannot come all at once. They -will take a few years at least: and I don’t calculate on staying always -at Horton. In a town, in a large parish, curates have better pay.” - -“And are worked off their feet, they and all their belongings, their -wives made drudges of, regular parish women, Bible women, or whatever -you call them. I know what goes on in large parishes, in great towns. -And the children grow up on the streets. No, the country’s bad enough, -but at least they can get fresh air and milk in the country, and people -may be kind to them: and there’s always a schoolmaster or someone to -give them a little education.” - -“Mr. Prescott,” said the curate mildly, “the children you are so kindly -anxious about are not born yet, and perhaps never will be. Don’t let us -go any farther than is necessary. The question in the meantime concerns -only Mary and myself.” - -“And how long will that be the case?” cried the Squire. But presently he -calmed down. “You might get food perhaps,” he said. “I say perhaps--I -don’t see how you are to do it--but allow that you could get food out of -it, and a cottage to live in--where are your clothes to come from? Where -are your shoes to come from? Mary is a lady; she has been brought up to -have servants to wait upon her. Is my niece to be your housemaid, Mr. -Asquith? your cook, and your washerwoman, and everything? You should -marry somebody that is used to that sort of thing. Somebody who has the -strength for it. Somebody in your own class of life!” - -The curate rose up with a flush of anger on his face. He could keep his -temper, but yet it stung him, all the more that it was just enough, and -he had already said all this to himself. He said, “I fear it will do no -good to talk of it longer, Mr. Prescott--you drive me to despair. And I -don’t deny that it is all true, everything you say. But I shall not -always be curate at Horton. I shall not always continue a curate even, I -hope. Sometimes, even without much influence, if a man does his work -well, promotion comes.” - -“Very seldom,” said the Squire. - -“Still it comes sometimes: and if ever man had an inducement to -work--will you think it over and try to look upon it more favourably? I -know what a sacrifice it must be for her. Still, she has a right to -choose too.” - -“To choose--at her age--knowing nothing of the world! Whatever you felt, -sir, you should have kept it to yourself--you should not have spoken. -How is a girl to know?” - -“I thought so too,” said the poor curate, humbly. “But a man has not -always command of himself.” - -“A man ought always to have command of himself when another person’s -comfort is concerned, especially a clergyman, who makes more profession -of virtue than other men,” said the Squire, following him to the door, -and sending that last volley after him. Mr. Asquith went away from the -Hall a miserable man. He had not the heart to ask for Mary, to tell her -how he had failed. As he hurried away, however, down the avenue, his -heart, which had sunk altogether, began to rise a little in indignation. -Why a clergyman more than other men? That a clergyman should be shut out -from that side of life altogether was comprehensible. He might take vows -as in the Church of Rome, there was reason in that. When men were so -poor as he was, instead of tantalising them with the idea of freedom, -and exposing them to all its risks, it might be better if they were -under the protection of vows and forbidden to marry. But as that was not -so, and the English ideal was quite different, why should it be worse in -a clergyman than in other men? A clergyman could not struggle and push -for promotion. He could not compete and shoulder his way through the -crowd. Must he give up also all that made existence sweet? And then the -further question arose, would it have been better for Mary had he held -his tongue and gone away and never told her he loved her? Had he perhaps -closed that chapter to her too? Perhaps she might have forgotten him, -and learned to love a richer man. But then perhaps she might not. -Naturally a man feels that a woman who has learned to love _him_ will -not easily change, or transfer her affections to another. Would it not -have been a wrong to Mary had he kept silence, had he never told her? It -is better even to love and lose, the poet says, than never to love at -all. It is better to have the triumph and delight of knowing that you -are loved, even if that love never comes to any earthly close. Why -should Mary have lost that because they were both poor? Nobody could -take away from them that moment of blessedness, that sense of sweetest -union, even if they might never marry at all--never-- - -But here a pang which was very acute and poignant like a sword went -through the curate’s heart. Never marry at all! Lose her, leave her, be -parted from her, after what they had said to each other! Oh, what deep -shadows come along with the brightest sunshine of life! What was the -good of living at all, of having known each other, of having recognized -the loveliness and sweetness of existence, if this was what had to be? - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER VIII. - -NEVERTHELESS. - - -The reader who is experienced, and knows how things go in this world, -especially in questions of love and marriage, will not be surprised to -hear that notwithstanding this troublous passage and several more, Mary -was married to the curate in the autumn of that same year. When two -people have set their hearts on this conclusion, it is astonishing how -very seldom they are foiled, or disappointed in it. One or the other -must break down in resolution: there must be a faint heart somewhere -before parents or guardians or trustees or any authorities whatsoever -can resist them. In the present case the authorities were weaker than -usual, for they were not agreed. Mr. Prescott, to his astonishment, -found that even his wife was not at one with him on this important -question. He hurried to the morning room in which she was sitting to -tell her, still in all the excitement of the discussion with the curate; -but his fervour was chilled by the very first words she said. “I let him -know very clearly what my opinion was. I told him that this sort of -thing was doubly culpable in a clergyman. Between ourselves, it is only -clergymen who do it. They believe in some sort of miracle, I -suppose--feeding by the ravens, or that sort of thing: or else they -expect to be maintained by the girl’s family; but I soon let him see -that nothing of the kind was to be looked for here.” - -“I hope, however, you didn’t send him away for good, John?” said Mrs. -Prescott, with a serious look. - -“Send him away for good! I daresay he did not see much good in it: but I -gave him a very decided answer, if that is what you mean.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Prescott, “I don’t mean to say that it would be a -good marriage for Mary: but very few men come to Horton at all, and we -can’t expect to live for ever, and it would be better that she should -have somebody to take care of her. I am not a matchmaker, you know. I -have been so too little, for there are Sophie and Anna still. But I do -think that in certain circumstances you ought to be very careful how you -reject an offer. If anything were to happen to us, what would become of -your niece? The girls might not care to have her always with them, and -it would not be at all suitable to have her here with John. She would be -in a very embarrassing position, poor child--one trying for all of them. -But if she had a husband to take care of her----” - -“A husband who could not give her bread, much less butter to her bread.” - -“Oh, no one can ever tell. Someone with a living to give away might take -a fancy to him: clergymen have many ways of ingratiating themselves. Or -he might get a curacy in a town, where the pay is better, and where it -is important to get a man who can preach. He is a very good preacher, -far better than your brother Hugh, who always sends me to sleep. I don’t -know why you should reject Mr. Asquith. He has a great many things in -his favour, and Mary likes him. Has she told me? Well, without her -telling me, I hope I am not so stupid as to be ignorant of what’s in a -girl’s mind. She will be very much surprised, and I am not so sure that -she will obey.” - -“Mary--not obey!--I think you must be dreaming.” - -“It is all very easy to speak. Mary is most obedient about everything -that is of no consequence: but this is of great consequence, John. And -the girl is of age, though we have all got into the habit of treating -her like a child. Why should she let her best chance drop, because you -don’t like it? I don’t mean to say that it is much of a chance. But -still a man like that may always get on, whereas a girl has very little -likelihood, by herself, of getting on. And we can’t always be here to -look after her.” - -“I don’t see why you should be so very determined on that subject,” said -the Squire, with a little irritation. “We are not so dreadfully aged, -when all is said.” - -“No, we are not dreadfully aged, but we can’t last forever. Suppose you -were to be taken from us,” said Mrs. Prescott, with placidity, “three -girls would be a great responsibility for me: and suppose I were to go -first, you would feel it still more. Indeed, I should be very sorry to -refuse an offer for Mary. To see her with a husband to take care of her, -would be a great comfort to me. Of course all that we can do must be for -our own girls--and not too much for them,” the mother said. - -The Squire went out for his walk that day full of thought. He was a man -who at the bottom of his heart was a kind man, and one with a -conscience, a conscience of the kind which sometimes gives its possessor -a great deal of trouble. He asked himself what was his duty to his -sister’s child? not to plunge her into poverty and the cares of life in -order to get rid of the responsibility from his own shoulders. Oh no, -that could never be his duty. But, at the same time, on the other hand, -to leave her in the care of a good husband was the best thing that could -happen to any girl. He knew enough of Mr. Asquith to be sure that he -would be a good husband. He was a good man, a man quite superior to the -ordinary type; though the curate was not very popular at the Hall, still -the Squire had perception enough to know this--that he was above the -average, not at all a common man. And he must be very much in love with -Mary, knowing that she had no money and no expectations, to have -subjected himself to such a cross-examination as Mr. Prescott knew he -had inflicted, on her account. Enlightened by his wife’s remarks, the -Squire thought the matter all over again from another point of view. The -man was very poor, but then Mary was very simple in her tastes, and if -the girl really preferred to marry him in a cottage, rather than to -live on at the Hall, perhaps it was true that her uncle had no right to -cross her. It was not exactly, he said to himself, as if he were her -father. She had always been a docile little thing, but his wife seemed -to think that there was a possibility that in this matter Mary might not -be so docile, that she might take her own way; and if she did so there -would be a breach in the family, and he would be compelled to withdraw -his protection from her, and her mother’s story might be enacted over -again. Mary’s mother’s story had not been happy. She too had been asked -in marriage by a poor man, and had been refused by her father. And she -had run away with her lover, and had suffered more than Mr. Prescott -liked to think of before she died. He said to himself now that perhaps -if his father had consented, if they had tried to help Burnet on instead -of letting him sink, things might have been different. Anyhow, he would -never allow that episode to be repeated. And if Mary would marry Mr. -Asquith, she must do it with the consent of her people, and everything -that could be done must be done for her husband. - -He went across the park to the rectory and consulted his brother Hugh on -the subject, who was first amused and then shook his head. “I knew there -would be mischief when I saw what kind of a man the fellow was,” the -rector said. - -“What kind of a man! Why, he is not a lady’s man at all, he plays no -tennis, he never comes up in the afternoon, he seems to care nothing for -society. Neither John nor the girls can make anything of him.” - -“Ah, that’s the dangerous sort,” said the Rev. Hugh, “there’s no flutter -in him. He settles on one, and there’s an end of it. He’s a terrible -fellow to stick to a thing. Take my word for it, John, you’ll have to -give in.” - -The Squire liked this view of the subject less than his wife’s view, and -went home roused and irritated, vowing that he would not give in. But by -that time he found Anna and Sophie discussing Mary’s trousseau, and the -whole household astir. “Of course she must have her things nice, and -plenty of them, for one never knows whether she will be able to get any -more when they’re done,” her cousins said. They were very good-natured. -They never doubted the propriety of accepting the curate, and were, -indeed, very strong in their mother’s view of the subject--that seeing -the uncertainty of life and the possibility any day of “something -happening” to papa, to get Mary off the hands of the family and settled -for life was a thing in every way to be desired. Mr. Prescott naturally -did not contemplate the likelihood of “something happening” to himself -with so much philosophy. But as they were all of one accord on the -subject, and his own thoughts so much divided, he gave in, of course, as -everybody knew he would do. - -And the fact of Mr. Asquith’s extreme poverty had its share, too, in -quickening the marriage. A very rich man and a very poor man have -nothing to wait for; they are alike in that--the rich, because his -means are assured; the poor because he has no means to assure. There is -nothing to wait for in either case. The rector gave Mr. Asquith -privately to understand that he would be on the outlook for something -better for him; and recommended the curate to do the same thing for -himself. “For this may do to begin with, but it is poor pickings for -two--and still less for three or four,” Mr. Hugh Prescott said. And thus -everything was arranged. John Prescott was the only one who took any -unexpected part in the matter. He astonished them all one day by -announcing suddenly that Mary must have a “thettlement.” “A settlement?” -said his father. “Poor child, there is nothing to settle either on one -side or the other.” - -The conversation took place at luncheon one day, when Mary was at the -rectory. - -“That’s just why there must be a thettlement,” repeated John, with an -obstinate air which he could put on when he chose, and of which they -were all a little afraid. - -“What nonsense!” said Mrs. Prescott; “her clothes are all there will be -to settle, and they couldn’t be taken from her, whatever might happen.” - -“I know what I’m thaying,” said John. “She wants thomething to fall back -upon, it he dies; for he may die, as well as another.” - -“That’s very true,” said Mr. Prescott, with some energy. He was relieved -to feel that there was someone else to whom “something might happen,” as -well as himself. - -“She must have a thouthand poundth,” John said. - -And then there arose a cry in the room, a sort of concerted yet -unconcerted and unharmonious union of voices. The Squire made his -exclamation in a deep growling bass. Mrs. Prescott came in with a sort -of alto, and the girls gave a short shrill shriek. A thousand pounds! -thousands of pounds were not plentiful in Horton. Anna and Sophie -themselves knew that very few would fall to their share, and neither of -them had so much as a curate to make a living for her. They had been -very willing to be liberal about the trousseau, but a thousand pounds! -that was a different matter altogether. They all gazed with horror at -the revolutionary who proposed this. John was not clever, as everybody -knew; he looked still less clever than he was. He had pale blue eyes of -a wandering sort, which did not look as if they were very secure in -their sockets, and a long fair moustache drooping over the corners of -his mouth. And he had a habit of sticking a glass in one eye, which fell -out every minute or two and made a break in his conversation. Many -people about Horton were of opinion that he was “not all there,” but his -family did not generally think so. At this moment, however, with one -accord it occurred to them all that there was something not quite sane -about John. - -“Thir,” said John to his father, “you needn’t trouble if you’ve any -objection. I mean to do it mythelf.” - -“Do it yourself! you must be out of your senses,” cried his mother. -“Where will you get a thousand pounds? I never heard such madness in all -my life.” - -“I suppose he means to take it off his legacy,” said the Squire, pale -with emotion; “if you’ve got a thousand pounds to dispose of, you had -better look a little nearer home. There’s Percy always drawing upon me, -and there’s the house falling to pieces----” - -“Or if you want to give it away, give it to your sisters, who have a -great deal more to keep up with their little money than ever Mary will -have,” Mrs. Prescott said. - -John did not say much. “I’ve thpoken to Bateman about the thettlement,” -he informed them, looking round dully with those unsteady eyes of his, -with an awkward jerk of his head and twist of his face to arrest the -fall of the eyeglass. The family, looking at him, were all exceptionally -impressed with the dulness of John’s appearance, the queerness of his -aspect. Really he did not look as if he were “all there.” But they were -perfectly convinced they might move Horton House as soon as John, and -that the settlement on Mary, which they all thought so completely -unnecessary, was an accomplished thing. - -Mary was more affected by it than she had ever been by anything in her -life. John!--she said to herself that he had always taken her part, -always been kind to her. Like the rest of the family, she had regretted -sometimes that the dashing Percy, who was so much nicer to look at, so -much more of a personage, so full of spirit and life, had not been the -elder brother. But Percy would have kept all his pounds to himself, -everybody knew, though he had the air of being far more open-handed than -his brother. Percy, however, on this emergency came out too in a very -good light. He sent her a set of gold ornaments, a necklace and a -bracelet of Indian work, for he was in India at the time, along with a -delightful letter, asking how she could answer to herself for marrying -first of all, she, who had always been the little one, and who could -only be, Percy thought, about fifteen now. “Tell Asquith I think he is -a very lucky fellow,” Percy wrote. John never said a word, even at the -wedding breakfast, when it was expected he should propose the health of -the bride and bridegroom. All that he did was to get up from his seat, -looking about him dully with those unsteady eyes, give a gasp like a -fish, and then sit down again, his eyeglass rattling against his plate -as it fell, which was the only sound he produced. But everybody knew -what he meant, which was the great matter. And as for the “thettlement,” -the wisest man in England could not have arranged it more securely than -John had done. - -And so Mary and the curate were married in the late autumn, when the -leaves were covering all the country roads, and the November fogs were -coming on. - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER IX. - -“HAPPY EVER AFTER.” - - -The Asquiths, though they were so poor, got on very pleasantly at first. -Mary had forty-five pounds a year from her thousand, and thought herself -a millionaire; and Uncle Hugh gave the curate twenty pounds more in lieu -of the lodgings, which were not adapted for a married man. With this -twenty pounds they got a very pretty cottage--a little house which Mr. -Prescott said was good enough for anybody; where, indeed, the widow of -the last rector had lived till her death; and which had a pleasant -garden, and was far above the pretensions of people possessing an income -which even with these additions only came to a hundred and sixty-five -pounds a year. The house was furnished for them, almost entirely by -their kind friends--a very large contribution coming from the Hall, -where there were many rooms that were never used, and even in the -lumber-room many articles that were good to fill up. In this way the new -married pair acquired some things that were very good and charming, and -some things that were much the reverse. They got some Chippendale -chairs, and an old cabinet which was in point of taste enough to make -the fortune of any house; but they also got a number of things -manufactured in the first half of the present century, of which the -least said the better. They did not themselves much mind, and probably, -being uninstructed, preferred the style of George IV. to that of Queen -Anne. - -And thus they lived very happily for two or three years. They lived very -happy ever after, might indeed have been said of them, as if they had -made love and married in a fairy tale. No words could have described -their condition better. Mary, delivered from the small talk of the -Horton drawing-room, and living in constant companionship with a man of -education, whose tastes were more cultivated and developed than those of -the race of squires, which was all she had hitherto known, brightened in -intelligence as well as in happiness, and with the quick receptivity of -her age grew into, without labour, that atmosphere of culture and -understanding which is the _fine fleur_ of education. She did not -actually know much more, perhaps, than she had known in her former -condition; but she began to understand all kinds of allusions, and to -know what people meant when they quoted the poets, or referred to those -great characters in fiction who are the most living people under the -sun. She no longer required to have things explained to her of this -kind. And as for the curate, it was astonishing how he brightened and -softened, and became reconciled to the facts of existence; and found -beauty and sweetness in those common paths which he had been disposed to -look upon with hasty contempt. No two people in the world, perhaps, can -live so much together, share everything so entirely, become one another, -so to speak, in so complete a way as a country clergyman and his wife. -Except the writing of his sermons, there was no part of his work into -which Mr. Asquith’s young wife did not enter; and even the sermons, -which were all read to her before they were preached, were the better -for Mary; for the curate was quick to note when her attention failed, -when her eyelids drooped, as they did sometimes, over her eyes. She was -far too loyal, and too much an enthusiast, you may be sure, ever to -allow in words that those prelections were less than perfect; but Mr. -Asquith was clever enough to see that sometimes her attention flagged. -Once or twice, before the first year was out, Mary nodded while she -listened--a delinquency which she denied almost furiously, with the -wrath of a dove; and which was easily explained by the fact that she was -at that moment “not very strong:” but which nevertheless Mr. Asquith, as -he laughed and kissed her and said, “That was too much for you, Mary,” -took to heart. “Too much for me!” she cried; “if you mean far finer and -higher than anything I could reach by myself, of course you are quite -right, Henry; but only in that sense,” the tears coming into her eyes in -the indignation of her protest. The curate did not insist, nor try to -prove to her that she had indeed dozed, which some men would have done. -He was too delicate and tender for any such brutal ways of proving -himself in the right; but, all the same, he laid that involuntary -criticism to heart, to the great advantage of his preaching. Thus they -did each other mutual good. - -And what a beautiful life these two lived! I know a little pair in a -little town, with not much more money than the Asquiths, and connections -much less important, and surroundings much less pretty--a pair who have -only a little house in a street, with unlovely houses of the poor about -them, instead of comely cottages, who do very much the same, all honour -to them! The Asquiths flung themselves upon that parish, and took the -charge of it with a rush, out of the calm elderly hands which had for -years managed it so easily. I do not undertake to say that they did no -harm, or that they were always wise; nobody is that I have ever come in -contact with: but if there is any finer thing in the world than to -maintain a brave struggle with all that is evil on account of others, on -account of the poor, who so often cannot help themselves, I don’t know -what it is. These two laid siege to all the strongholds of ill in the -village--and evil, or the Evil One if you please to put it so, has many -such strongholds--with all the energies of their being. They fought -against wickedness, against disorder, against disease, against waste, -and dirt, and drink; against the coarse habits and unlovely speech of -the little rural place. They made a chivalrous attempt to turn all those -rustics into ladies and gentlemen--into what is better, Christian men -and women, into good and pure and thoughtful persons, considering not -only their latter end, as the parson had always bidden them to do, but -also their present living and all their habits and ways. The curate had -been working very steadily, in this sense, since he came to Horton; but -when he had, so to speak, Mary’s young enthusiasm, her feminine -practicalness, yet scorn of the practical and contempt of all the limits -of possibility, poured into him, stimulating his own strength, the -result was tremendous. The parish for a moment was taken by surprise, -and in its astonishment was ready to consent to anything the young -innovators desired. It would sin no more, neither be untidy any more; it -would abandon the public-house and wash its babies’ faces three times in -the day; it would put something in the savings-bank every Saturday of -its life, and open all its windows every morning, and pursue every smell -to the death. All this and more it undertook in the consternation caused -by that sudden onslaught: and for a little time, with those two active -young people in constant circulation among the cottages, giving nobody -any peace, scolding, praising, persuading, contrasting, encouraging, -helping too in that incomprehensible way in which the poor do help the -poor, a great effect was produced. As for going to church, that was the -first and easiest point; and here Mary came in with her music, which the -curate did not understand, influencing the choice of the hymns, and -getting up choir practices, and heaven knows how many other -seductions--artful temptations to the young to do well instead of doing -ill--sweetnesses and pleasures to make delightful the narrow way. - -“You think you are doing an immense deal,” said Uncle Hugh, “but you’ll -find it won’t last.” - -“Why shouldn’t it last?” cried Mary. “They are so much happier in -themselves. Don’t you think a man must feel what a difference it makes -when he comes home sober, and finds a nice supper waiting him on -Saturday nights; and then to go out to church with all the children, -neat and clean, round him, instead of lounging, dirty, at the door with -his pipe?” - -“Perhaps it is more comfortable,” said the rector, shaking his head. -“_I_ should think so, certainly; but it isn’t human nature, my dear. You -will find that he will rather have his fling at the public-house, though -he feels wretched next morning. He likes to see his children nice; but -better still he likes his own pleasure. You’ll find it won’t last.” - -“We must be prepared for a few downfalls,” said the curate. “I tell Mary -that we must not expect everything to go on velvet. Some of them will -fall away; but with patience, and sticking to it, and never giving -in----” - -“Never giving in!” cried Mary. “Why, uncle, you don’t suppose I am so -silly as to think we could build Rome in a day. We quite look for -failures now and then,” she said, with her bright face. “We should -almost be disappointed if we had no failures; shouldn’t we, Henry? for -then it wouldn’t look real; but with patience and time everything can -be done.” - -The rector only shook his head. He did not say, as he might have done, -that it was very presumptuous of these young people to think they could -do more in a few months than he had done in his long incumbency. The -rector’s wife was very strong on this point, and quite angry with Mary -and the curate for their ridiculous hopes; but Mr. Prescott himself -felt, perhaps, that his reign had been an indolent one, and that he had -not done all he might. But he shook his head; for, after all, though he -had been indolent, he knew human nature better than they did. He was not -angry with them; but he had seen such crusades before, and had various -sad experiences as to the dying out of enthusiasm, and the failure of -hope. And the rector, who was a kind man in his heart, knew through the -ladies of the family that the time was approaching when Mary would be -“not very strong,” and apt to flag in other matters besides that of -listening to her husband’s sermon. And he knew, also, that the -conditions of life would change for them; that the young wife would find -work of her own to do, which could not be put aside for the parish; and -that “patience and time,” on which they calculated, were just what they -would not have to give: for when babies began to come, and all their -expenses were increased, how were they to go on with one hundred and -sixty-five pounds a year? The rector said to himself that he would not -discourage them, that they should do what they would as long as they -could. But he foresaw that the time would come when Mr. Asquith would be -compelled to seek another curacy with a little more money, and when -Mary, instead of being the good angel of the parish, would have to be -nurse and superior servant-of-all-work at home. - -“Poor things!” he said to his wife. “It is sad when you have to -acknowledge that you are no longer equal to the task you have set for -yourself.” - -“I don’t call them poor things,” said Mrs. Prescott. “I think them very -presuming, Hugh, after you have spent so many years here, to think they -can bring in new principles and make a reformation in a single day.” - -“We might have done more, my dear. We have taken things very quietly; -most likely we could have done more.” - -“You are as bad as they are, with your humility!” cried the rector’s -wife. “I have no patience with you. What have you left undone that you -ought to have done? I am sure you’ve always been at their beck and call, -rising up out of your warm bed to go and visit them in the middle of the -night, when you have been sent for--more like a country practitioner -than a beneficed clergyman! And though I say it that perhaps shouldn’t -say it, never one has been sent away, as you know, that came in want to -our pantry door. And as for lyings-in, and those sort of things----” -cried the country lady. - -“We needn’t go into details. As for your part of it, my dear, I know -that’s always been well done,” said the politic rector. “Anyhow, don’t -let us say anything to discourage the Asquiths. It’s always a good thing -to stir a parish up.” - -“It’s like those revivalists,” said Mrs. Prescott--“a great fuss, and -then everything falling back worse than before.” - -“Oh no! not worse than before: somebody is always the better for it. I -like a good stirring up.” - -All this was very noble of the rector, who, if ever he had stirred up -the parish, had ceased to do it long ago. Perhaps he was a little moved -by the fervent conviction of the curate and the curate’s wife that in -their little day, and with the small means at their command, they could -do so much; at all events, he let them have their way and try their -best. And a great deal of work was done, with an effect by which they -were greatly delighted and elated in the first year. - -But then came the time when Mary was “not very strong,” and the choir -practices and various other things had to be given up--not entirely -given up, for the schoolmaster and his daughter made an attempt to keep -them on, which was more trying to the nerves and patience of the invalid -than if they had ceased altogether. For jealousies arose, and the -different parties thought themselves entitled to carry their grievances -to Mrs. Asquith, even when she was very unfit for any disturbance; and -everything was very heavy on the curate’s shoulders during that period -of inaction which was compulsory on Mary’s part. They had undertaken so -much, that when one was withdrawn the other could not but break down -with overwork. However, there was presently a re-beginning; and Mary, -smiling and happier than ever, prettier than ever, and full of a warmer -enthusiasm still, came again to the charge. She understood the poor -women, the poor mothers, so much better now, she declared. Even the -curate himself was not such an instructor as that little three-weeks-old -baby, which did nothing but sleep, and feed, and grow. That was a -teacher fresh from heaven; it threw light on so many things, on the -very structure of the world, and how it hung together, and the love of -God, and the ways of men. Mary thought she had never before so fully -understood the prayer which is addressed to Our Father: she had not -known all it meant before: and the curate, indescribably softened, -touched, melted out of all perception of the hardness, feeling more than -ever the sweetness of life, received this ineffable lesson too. - -And so the crusade against the powers of evil was taken up again, with -all the new life of this little heavenly messenger to stimulate them; -but not quite so much of the more vulgar strength, the physical power, -the detachedness and freedom. Mary had to be at home with the baby so -often and so long. And the curate had so strong a bond drawing him in -the same direction, to make sure that all was going well. But still the -parish did not suffer in those young and happy years. - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER X. - -THE LIGHT OF COMMON DAY. - - -Even in the quietest lives the first few years of married life are apt -to bring changes: the ideal dies off, with its fairy colours; the -realities of ordinary existence come with a leap upon the surprised -young people, to whom everything has been enveloped in the glory and the -brightness of a dream. That plunge into the matter-of-fact is often more -trying to the husband--who rarely sees the bride of his visions drop -into the occupations of the housewife and the mother without a certain -pang--than to the young woman herself, who in the pride and delight of -maternity finds a still higher promotion, and to whom the commonest -cares, the most material offices, which she would have shrunk from a -little while before, become half divine. But when the house is very -poor to begin with, and there is no margin left for enlargements, this -inevitable change is more deeply felt. By the time the third child -arrived, the Asquiths had changed their ideas about many things. Mary’s -help in the parish was now very fitful. She still accomplished what was -a great deal “for her:” but there had been no conditions or limits to -her labours in those early days, when she had worked like a second -curate, bearing her full share of everything. These were the days in -which so many things had been undertaken, more than any merely mortal -curate could keep up; and in the meantime there had been a great many -disappointments in the parish. Even before Mary’s powers failed, the -influence of the new impulse was over. The people had got accustomed to -all the many things that were being done for them: they were no longer -taken by surprise. The ancient _vis inertia_--that desire to be let -alone which is so strong in the English character--came uppermost once -more. “Oh, here’s this botherin’ practice again!” the boys and girls -began to say; or, “It’s club night, but I ain’t a-going. Them as gets -the good of the money can come and fetch it!”--for the village people by -this time had got it well into their heads that the custody of their -pennies and sixpences was in some occult way to the curate’s advantage. -And so in one way after another, ground was lost. Mr. Asquith got fagged -and worn out in his efforts to do more than one man could do, without -the help which had borne him up so triumphantly at first; he was deeply -discouraged by the defection of so many; and he felt to the bottom of -his soul the triumph in the eyes of Mrs. Prescott, at the rectory, who -had always said nothing would come of it. The rector, for his part, -would not show any triumph. He had behaved very well throughout; he had -not resented the curate’s attempts to improve upon all his own ways, and -do more than ever had been done before in Horton. And now when the -fervour of these first reformations began to fail, he did not say, “I -told you so,” as so many would have done. He was very moderate, very -temperate, rather consoling than aggravating the disappointment. “Human -nature is always the same,” he said. “Even when you get it stirred up -for a time, it reclaims its right to do wrong--and yet all good work -tells in the long run,” Mr. Prescott said, which was very good-natured -of him, and was indeed straining a point; for he was by no means so sure -that in the long run these Quixotic exertions did tell. But Mrs. -Prescott was not so forbearing. “You might have known from the beginning -this was how it would be,” she said to Mary. “You young people think you -are the only people who have ever attempted anything; but it isn’t -so--it’s quite the contrary. We have all tried what we could do, and -we’ve all been disappointed. I could have told you so from the first, if -you had shown any inclination to be guided by me!” - -“Oh, Aunt Jane!” cried Mary, “it all went on beautifully at first. It is -my fault, that have not kept up as I ought to have done. If I hadn’t -been such a poor creature, everything would have gone well.” - -“There is something in that,” said Mrs. Prescott, who had never had any -babies. “It is always a sad thing when a young woman has so many -children----” - -“Aunt Jane!” cried Mary, almost with a scream. She gathered the little -new baby to her bosom, and over its downy little head glared at her -childless aunt. “As if they were not the most precious things in -life--as if they were not God’s best gift! as if we could do without any -one of them!” - -“Perhaps not, my dear, now they are here,” said Mrs. Prescott; “but you -may let your friends say that it would have been much better for you if -they had not come so fast.” - -To this Mary could not make any reply, though her indignation was -scarcely diminished. She was, indeed, very indignant on this point. All -of these ladies--her aunt at the Hall and the girls, as well as her -aunt at the rectory--spoke and looked as if Mary was no better than a -victim, helplessly overwhelmed with children; whereas she was a proud -and happy mother, thinking none of them fit to be compared with her in -her glory. That they should venture to pity her, and say poor Mary! she, -who was in full possession of all that is most excellent in life, was -almost more than the curate’s wife could bear. Her two little boys and -her little girl were her jewels as they were those of the Roman woman -whom Mary had heard of, but whom she would have thought it too -high-flown to quote. She felt, all the same, very much like that -classical matron. Anna and Sophie were very proud of their diamond pins, -which even for diamonds were poor things; and they had the impertinence -to pity her and her three children! Mary fumed all the time they paid -her their visits, which had the air of being visits of condolence rather -than of congratulation; and in her weakness cried with vexation and -indignation after they had left. The curate came in before those angry -tears were dried, and her agitated feelings burst forth. “They come to -me and pity me,” she cried, “till I don’t know how to endure them! Oh, -Harry, I wish we were not so near my relations! Strangers daren’t be so -nasty to you as your relations!” Mary sobbed, with the long-pent-up -feeling, which in that moment of feebleness she could not restrain. - -“My dearest, never mind them,” he said soothingly. And then, after a -pause, with some hesitation,--“Mary, this gives me courage to say what I -never liked to say before. Don’t you find, even with your own little -income, dear, which I was so anxious should not be touched, and with all -the advantages here, that it is very difficult to make both ends meet?” - -“Oh, Harry! I have been trying to keep it from you. I didn’t want to -burden you with that too. Difficult! it is impossible! I must give Betsy -warning. I have been making up my mind to it. After all, it is only -pride, you know, for she is very little good. I have had most of the -work to do myself all the time. I must give her warning as soon as I am -well--or rather, we must try to find her a place, which is the best -way.” - -“What?” cried the curate. “Betsy, the only creature you have to do -anything for you! No, no. I cannot allow that.” - -“The housekeeping is my share,” said Mary, with a smile; “now that I can -do so little in the parish, I may at least be of use at home. And if you -only knew how little good she is! She can’t even amuse little Hetty, and -Jack won’t go to her!” These frightful details Mary gave with the -temerity they deserved. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do. There are -the Woods, who have always been so nice, so regular at school, and -attentive about the club. I mean to have Rosie, the eldest, to come in -for an hour or two in the morning to look after the children while I get -things tidy; and then Mrs. Wood herself will come on Saturdays and give -everything a good clean up: and you will see we shall get on -beautifully,” Mary said, smiling upon him with her dewy eyes, which were -still wet. But the irritation had all died away, and in the pallor of -her recent pangs, and the sacredness of her motherhood, no queen of a -poet’s imagination could have looked more sweet. - -“Oh, Mary, my darling!” cried the poor curate in his love and -compunction. “To think I should have brought you to this!” - -“To what?” said Mary radiant, “to the greatest happiness in life, to do -everything for one’s own? Oh! Harry, I am afraid I have not the -self-devotion a clergyman’s wife ought to have. I was happy to work in -the parish--but, dear, if you won’t despise me very much--I think I am -happier to work for the children and you.” - -What could the poor man do? He kissed her and went away humiliated, yet -happy. That he should have to consent to be served by her in the -homeliest practical ways--she, who was his love and his lady--had -something excruciating in it; and to think that his love should have -brought her to this, and that he should have foreseen it, and yet done -it in the weakness of his soul! But when he went back to that, the -curate could not be sorry either that he had loved Mary, or that he had -told her his love, or married her. She was not sorry--God bless -her!--but radiant and happy as the day, and more sweet, and more sacred, -and more beautiful than she had been even in her girlhood. What could he -say? He would not even disturb that exquisite moment by telling her of -the change that he was beginning to contemplate. Things could wait at -least for a few days. - -But when she told him that she had given Betsy warning, the curate did -speak. “I have done it,” she said, partly by way of excuse for bringing -in the tea herself, which she did, panting a little, but smiling over -the tray. “We shall be so much better off with Mrs. Wood coming in one -day in the week. Then we shall really have the satisfaction of knowing -that everything is clean for once, and no little spy in the house to -report to everybody what we have for dinner; but we must try and get her -another place, Harry; for though the children don’t like her, and I -should never recommend her for a nursery, there are some things that she -can do.” - -“Some things you have taught her to do,” Mr. Asquith said. - -“So much the more credit to me,” said Mary, laughing, “for she is not -very easy to teach.” - -It was evening, and the children were in bed and all quiet. The little -creature last born lay all covered up in the sitting-room beside them, -in a cradle, which the ladies at the Hall, notwithstanding their -indignation at his appearance, had trimmed with muslin and lace and made -very ornamental: and Mary was glad to put herself in the rocking-chair -which her cousin John had given her, and lie back a little and rest. -“One never knows,” she said, “how pleasant it is to rock, till one knows -what work is. But, Harry, you are over-tired, you don’t care for your -tea.” - -“I care a great deal more for seeing you tired,” he said. “Mary, I want -to speak to you about something very serious. Would it break your heart, -my dearest, if we were to go away from Horton? That is the question I -didn’t venture to ask the other day.” - -“Break my heart! when the children are well, and you? What a question to -ask! Nothing could break my heart,” cried Mary, with a delightful laugh, -“so long as all is right with you.” - -And then he told her that another curacy had been offered him, a curacy -in a large town. It would be very different from Horton. He would be -under the orders of a very well-known clergyman, a great organiser, a -man who was very absolute in his parish, instead of being free to do -almost anything he pleased, as under Uncle Hugh’s mild sway. And he -would have a great deal of work, but within bounds and limits, so that -he would know what was expected from him, without having the general -responsibility of everything. And though he would be under the rector, -yet he would be over several younger curates, and in his way a sort of -vice-bishop too. “But you must remember,” he said, “that we shall have -to live in a street without any garden, with very little fresh air. It -will be quite town, not even like a suburb--nothing but stone walls all -round you.” - -Mary’s countenance fell. “Oh, Harry! that will not be good for the -children.” - -“I believe there is a park in which the children can walk,” he said, -upon which Mary brightened once more. - -“In that case, I don’t mind the other things,” she said, rocking softly -in her chair; “but, Harry, how shall you like to be dictated to, and -told everything that you have to do?” - -“I should like anything,” he said, “that gave you a little more comfort, -my poor Mary. There is two hundred and fifty a year----” - -He said it with solemnity, as was right--“Two hundred and fifty a year.” -Few are the curates who rejoice in such an income. Mary brought her -chair down upon the floor with a sound which but lightly emphasised her -astonishment and awe. These feelings were so strong in her mind that -they had to be expressed before pleasure came. - -“And you really have this offered to you, Harry? _offered_, without -looking for it?” - -“Yes,” said the curate, with the hush and wonder of humility, feeling -that he could not account for such a piece of good fortune. - -“That shows,” cried she, “how much you are appreciated, how you are -understood. Oh, Harry! the world is wonderfully kind and right-feeling, -after all.” - -“Yes,” he said, “sometimes; there are a great many kind people in the -world. And you don’t mind it, my darling? you don’t mind leaving Horton -and all your relations, and the neighbourhood you have lived in all your -life?” - -“Mind it!” she cried, and paused a little, and dried her eyes, which -were full. “Harry,” she said, with a little solemnity, “I think when -people marry and have a family of their own, it is always a little like -the beginning of a new world; don’t you think so? Everything is changed. -It seems natural to go to a new place, to make a real new start, more -natural than to stay where one has always been. Then, when they grow up, -there will be openings for the boys; and Hetty will be able to get a -good education. Mind it! I am sure it is the right thing.” - -“I am very glad, dear. I feared you might have doubts about leaving the -parish.” - -“After all,” said Mary, “we have done everything we could for the -parish; and perhaps a little novelty would be good for them now. Uncle -Hugh will be very particular in choosing a very good man to succeed you. -And we have done everything we could; perhaps a new curate who is a -novelty may be better for the parish too.” - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XI. - -THE FIRST CHANGE. - - -There was a good deal of difficulty made among the relations about this -removal. The ladies particularly were very decided on the subject. Who -would look after Mary? who would see that she did not do too much, that -she took proper nourishment, that she had from time to time a new gown, -if she went away? “She will never think of these things for herself,” -said Mrs. Prescott at the Hall to Mrs. Prescott at the Rectory. “She -will give everything to the children. She will think of him and them, -and never of herself.” - -“But I don’t see what we can do,” said the clergyman’s wife. “We cannot -keep them here against their will. It is a far better income than Hugh -can afford to give. And with children coming so fast, they will soon -have to think of education and all that. I don’t like it any more than -you do,” added the clerical lady, “but what can we do?” - -They, however, all felt that Mary’s satisfaction in the change was -ungrateful and almost unnatural. - -“You will never know the advantages you have had till you go away,” her -aunt said to her. “You have always had some one to refer to, some one to -take you out a little and make you forget your cares. But among -strangers it will be different. You don’t know how different it will -be.” - -Perhaps Mary was a little ungrateful. She did not estimate at their due -value the dinners at the Hall to which she and the curate had often gone -quite unwillingly, though the givers of these entertainments thought it -was a great thing for the young couple to have somebody who was always -ready to ask them. Young couples are apt to be ungrateful in this way, -to think little of the home invitations, and to prefer their own company -to that of their relatives; and Mary had not been better than others in -this respect. She and Mr. Asquith had said to each other that it was a -bore when they went to the Hall to dine. They had said to each other -that their evenings at home were much more delightful. Though Mary at -this period would not have believed it possible, yet there were moments -in later years when they would have found it very agreeable to return to -those old dinners at the Hall: but of that she was at present quite -unaware. She was, indeed, it must be allowed, a little too exultant and -happy about her move. To think that this advancement had been offered to -the curate, such an important post, so much superior to anything that -could have been hoped for at this early stage, elated her beyond -measure. And the increased income was a great thing. Giving up at once, -and with great ease, the idea of training young servants to such -perfection that people should come far and near to compete for a maid -who had been with Mrs. Asquith, which was her first ideal, Mary rejoiced -in the prospect of getting a real servant, a woman who knew her work, “a -thorough good maid-of-all-work,” she said with importance, as if she had -been speaking of a groom of the chambers. “Oh, the relief it will be -just to tell her what has to be done, without having to show her -everything!” Mrs. Asquith said. - -“But you used to think it would be so much better to train one to your -own ways,” the curate replied, not being used to so rapid a change of -principle. - -“Ah, I have learned something myself since then,” said Mary. And so she -had--the first lesson in life, which has so many and such hard lessons, -especially for those who study in the school of poverty. Poor Mary -thought her troubles were over now. She even formed dreams of having a -little nursemaid to wheel out the perambulator, Two hundred and fifty -eked out by that forty-five of her own! Why, it was a princely income; -and privation and discomfort, she fully believed, were now to be things -of the past. - -There was some difficulty in getting the furniture transported to the -new place, for some of it was very heavy and large, having come direct, -as has been said, from the lumber rooms and unused part of the Hall. The -curate proposed with diffidence that these lordly articles should be -sold, and others more suitable bought, to save the expense of carriage; -but Mary was shocked by the suggestion. “They are all presents,” she -said; “we couldn’t, oh, we couldn’t, Harry, without hurting their -feelings. It would look as if we thought those things not good enough -for us that were good enough for them.” - -“But they were not good enough for them, or they would not have been -given to us,” said the curate, a speech which he repented immediately, -for Mary would not have such a reproach thrown upon her relations; and -her husband ate his words and explained that it was because the great -mahogany sideboard, etc., were too good for a curate’s little house that -he wished to dispose of them, which mended matters. And even now -everybody was very kind. Uncle Hugh insisted on adding twenty pounds to -the last quarter’s income for travelling expenses, which, considering -that his curate was deserting him, was liberal indeed; and the Squire -was not behind in liberality. There was perhaps a little of the feeling -on the part of the richer relations that they were thus washing their -hands of Mary, setting her up once for all, so that she never could have -any excuse for saying that her mother’s brothers had not done their duty -by her. Neither of these kind men, who were really fond of her in their -way, would have said this even to themselves. But it must be remembered -that she had chosen for herself, and contrary to their advice, and that -she had been fully warned of the poverty which was likely to be her lot, -and that they could not always stand between her and its penalties. But -if this was their feeling, they were at least very kind and liberal in -this final setting out, which also was her own doing or her husband’s -doing, and no way suggested by any desire of theirs to get rid of her. -And her aunt and the girls urged upon her the necessity of writing, and -keeping them fully informed of all that happened. “Write every week,” -said Mrs. Prescott at the Hall; “if you don’t make a habit of it, you -will fall out of it altogether. Now, Mary, remember, once a week.” - -“Don’t let us hear of the new babies only through the newspapers,” said -Mrs. Prescott at the Rectory. - -“Oh, Aunt John, of course I shall write every week, or oftener. Oh, Aunt -Hugh, how could you suppose such a thing? and perhaps there will be no -more babies,” Mary said. - -She was a little tearful as she bade them all good-bye, remembering -then, with a touch of compunction, how kind they had always been; but -all the same she was radiant, setting out upon life for the first time, -setting out fairly upon the new world, upon her own career, without any -of the old traditions. Heretofore, though she had attained the dignity -of marriage and maternity, Mary had not felt the greater splendour of -independence. Now she was going out with no head but her husband, and no -beaten paths in which she must tread. They were going to trace their own -way through the world, their own way and that of their children, the way -of a new family, a new house, a new nation and tribe, distinct among the -other tribes, not linked on, a subsidiary sept to the tribe of the -Prescotts. Perhaps there was a little ingratitude in this, too, as there -is in every erection of a new standard; but they did not see it from -that point of view. She was radiant in the glory of her separate -beginning, glad to throw off the thraldom of natural subjection, just as -they were perhaps glad to wash their hands of her and her concerns. -Neither expressed the feeling, or would have acknowledged it; but it was -a natural feeling enough on both sides. - -John was the last of the Prescotts to bid his cousin good-bye. He came -in at a very inappropriate moment, when all the things were packed, and -the children were having their hats and hoods tied on, and making a -great noise in inarticulate baby excitement, delighted with the -commotion. He strolled in at this moment probably because it was the -worst he could have chosen, and stood looking at the emptied and -desolate cottage, and the family all in their travelling dresses, -waiting for the carriage which was coming from the Hall to take them to -the station. “I’ve come to thay good-bye,” said John, looking all about -him, as if with a desire to see whether they were carrying any of the -fixtures away. - -“Oh, John, how kind of you,” said Mary, “though we are in such a -confusion: there is not a chair to ask you to sit down in.” - -“I don’t want to thit down,” said John. And he stood for a little longer -gazing round him until Mr. Asquith had gone out to look for the -carriage, which was late--or at least, so they thought in their -anxiety, to be in good time for the train. This appeared to be what John -wanted, for he said more quickly than usual, “I don’t want to thit down; -I want to thay thomething before you go away.” - -“What is it, Cousin John? Oh, I am in such a confusion----” - -“Yes, you are in a great confuthion,” said John solemnly; and then he -added after another pause, “if you should ever want anything down -there,” pointing with his thumb vaguely over his shoulder, “write to -me.” - -“Oh, thank you, Cousin John; but we sha’n’t want anything, I hope. Oh, -there’s the carriage,” Mary cried; “I hear it at last.” - -John stood by gravely shaking his head, his mouth a little open, his -moustache drooping. “Thingth are always wanted,” he said solemnly. -“Write to _me_.” - -Mary recounted this little incident to her husband after they had -established themselves comfortably in the railway carriage, and had -waved their hands for the last time to the people assembled to bid them -good-bye, and were dashing along over the country, a family detached and -set afloat in the world, a new race setting forth to conquer the earth. -A sort of atmosphere of excitement, of elation, of novelty, and -enthusiasm was about them, so that they were a little sorry for the -homelier people going about quietly, looking out of the windows of calm -country houses, standing at cottage doors, all in their ordinary way. To -be so far out of their ordinary way, in such a rush and whirl of -unaccustomed sensation, seemed to them a superiority--an elevation such -as the dwellers in every-day life might well be envious of. Mary told -her husband about John, and they both laughed, in their superiority of -happiness, at the awkward good fellow who had thought it right to make -this overture, which it was so little likely they would ever take -advantage of. Mary herself laughed, she could not help it: but she said -“Don’t laugh at him, Harry; it was a kind thought, a little out of -place, perhaps, but we must not judge him by ordinary rules. He may be -silly, but he is so kind. Don’t! It hurts me when you laugh at John;” -but she laughed herself just a little, softly, under her breath. - -“I am not laughing at him,” said the curate; “he is by far the best of -the lot, and worth a dozen of that Percy you all make such a fuss about; -but I don’t think you’ll write to him to ask his help--at least, I hope -not.” - -“Harry!” she said with indignation, as if the mere idea of wanting help -at all, she his wife, and he the senior curate of St. John’s, Radcliffe, -was a suggestion so ridiculous as almost to be an offence. And in this -spirit they pursued their happy journey across England to the other side -of the kingdom, with, not their flocks and herds, like the patriarchs, -but what comes to the same thing, their furniture and their boxes and -their children, to settle down in the well-watered plain, in the land -flowing with milk and honey, in which their career and their -surroundings were to be all their own. - -I cannot follow all the details of their history step by step. St. -John’s, Radcliffe, did not turn out to be paradise, nor did Mary find -boundless capabilities in two hundred and fifty pounds a year. After the -first twelvemonth, the cares of life began again to make themselves -felt, and fatigue and occasional low spirits chequered their career -which nevertheless they still felt to be a fine career. They stayed six -years altogether in this place, and left it for what was supposed to be -a much better position, with an increased number of children and -considerable cheerfulness, though not perhaps with the same elation -which had characterised their first setting out. The second post the -curate obtained was that of _locum tenens_ to an invalid rector, and -hopes were expressed, that in case of good service, if the rector should -die, the patron’s choice would most probably fall upon the temporary -incumbent. The prospect was delightful, though sufficiently tempered by -doubt to make Mr. Asquith hesitate about relinquishing St. John’s. But -then it is an understood thing that curates should not consider -themselves permanent incumbents; and there were evidences that the -rector would like a change, though he would not send so deserving a man -with so large a family away. The way the family went on increasing was -wonderful, was almost criminal, some people said. Only poor people, and -poor clergymen above all, permitted themselves such expansion; and what -was to become of all those helpless little things, spectators asked who -never attempted to solve their own question. Nevertheless, they got on -somehow as large families do. Mary had always a smile and thanksgiving -for every new-comer, considering it as a gift of God, and thinking it -hard that the poor little intruder should not have a welcome. And that, -I confess, is my idea too, though it is a little out of fashion. But -life was not much of a holiday under such circumstances, as will be -easily understood; and Mary learnt a great many lessons, and went on -learning, and had to contradict herself and change her mind over and -over again as the years went on. She had begun bravely to write every -week, as her aunt charged her; but gradually that good habit had fallen -into disuse; and as the Asquiths moved from one place to another, they -lost sight of their relations, hearing from them only once in a way, -when anything remarkable happened, and at last coming to the pitch that -they never heard at all. In sixteen years, which is the time at which I -take up my curate and his Mary in their daily life again, a great many -things had happened. “The girls” at Horton had both married, one a -Frenchman, who took her to live abroad; another an officer in India. The -old people at the Hall were both dead. Uncle Hugh was an invalid, living -mostly in Italy for his health. And all that belonged to Mary’s youthful -life had fallen out of sight. This was the state of affairs in the -curate’s house, when Hetty, the eldest girl, the best child that ever -was born, reached her sixteenth birthday: a day which was celebrated by -a proposal at once exciting, fortunate, and painful, as shall be now set -forth. - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XII. - -THE ELDEST CHILD. - - -Hetty was sixteen that day. There were nine younger than she was. When -these words are said, coupled with the fact already told that Hetty was -the best child that ever was born, they may not throw much light upon -her character--and yet they will show with tolerable distinctness what -her external position was. She was the best little nurse, the best -housemaid, the most handy needle-woman, the most careful little -housekeeper in all Summerfield, which, as everybody knows, is a suburb -of the great town of Rollinstock, in the middle of England. She could -make beef-tea and a number of little invalid dishes, better, and more -quickly and more neatly, than any one else that ever was known, for, -naturally, her mother was often in a condition to want a little care; -and the children had every childish malady under the sun, all of them -together, in the most friendly, comfortable way, and never were any the -worse. Something defended them which does not defend little groups of -two or three in richer nurseries. They sickened and got well again, as a -matter of course, whenever there was any youthful epidemic about. They -were altogether quite an old-fashioned family, having all the complaints -that children ought to have, but remaining impervious to all the -imperfections of drainage and all the dangers of brain exhaustion. Their -blood was never poisoned, nor their nerves shattered. They got ill and -got well again, as children used to do in old days. And Hetty, without -ever setting foot in a hospital or having any instruction, was one of -those heaven-born little nurses who used to flourish in novels and -poetry, and who, as a matter of fact, were found in many families in -those days when it was the fashion to believe that it was a woman’s -first duty to serve and care for those who were her own. Hetty was not -aware of any individual existence of hers apart from her family. They -were all one, and she was the eldest, which is a fact confusing, -perhaps, to the arithmetical faculties, but quite easy to the heart. - -The family, by this time, was at its fourth or fifth removal. Mr. -Asquith had not got the living when the invalid rector died to whom he -was _locum tenens_; and if his heart ever grew sick of his toils and -poorly rewarded labour, it was at the moment when the family had to turn -out of the nice old-fashioned rectory which they had been allowed to -occupy during that period of expectation. For one moment the curate had -asked himself what was the use of it all, and had said, in the -bitterness of his heart, that his work never had time to come to -anything, and that all the fond hopes of doing good, and bettering the -poor, and helping the weak, with which he had set out in life, had come -to nought. Women are perhaps not so apt to come to such a conclusion, -and though Mary was aware, too, of many a defeat and downfall, she did -her best to console him. “And then there are the children,” she said. -The poor man, at that moment, felt that the children were the last -aggravation of his trouble, so many helpless creatures to be dragged -after him wherever he had to go. He looked at the hand which his wife -had put upon his to comfort him. What a pretty hand it had once been! -and now how scarred and marked with work, its pretty whiteness gone, its -texture spoiled, the forefinger half sewed away, the very shape of it, -once so taper and delicate, lost. “Oh,” he said, “what a hard life I -have brought upon you, Mary! To think if I had only had more command of -myself, you might never have known any trouble!” - -Mary replied with a shriek, “Do you mean if we had never married? I -think you have gone out of your senses, Harry.” - -“I think I almost have, with trouble,” said the poor man. And yet, -after all, his trouble was not half hers. It was she who had to bear the -children, and nurse them, and have all the fatigue of them; it was she -who had to scheme about the boys’ shoes and their schooling, and how to -get warm things for the winter, and to meet the butchers and bakers when -they came to suggest that they had heavy payments to make: and to bear -all these burdens with a smile, lest _he_ should break down. When she -had sent him out, frightened into better spirits by the ridiculous -absurdity of the suggestion that they might never have married (which -was much the same as saying that this world might never have been -created; and that, no doubt, would have saved a great deal of trouble), -Mary made her little explosion in her turn. “It is much papa knows!” she -cried. “I wonder if he had our work for a day or two what he would think -of it. And now we shall have to pack into a small house again, where he -can have no quiet room for his study. Oh, Hetty, what shall we do? What -shall we do?” - -Hetty kissed her mother, with soft arms round her neck. “We must just do -the best we can, mamma,” Twelve-years-old said, “and don’t you notice -nothing turns out so bad as it seems?” added the little philosopher. -Hetty, like her mother before her, had a wholesome love of change, and a -persistent hope in the unknown. And on the whole, barring their little -breakings down, they all appeared with quite cheerful faces in their new -place; and life turned out always to be livable wherever they went. The -spectacle of their existence was a much more wonderful one to spectators -than to themselves; for the lookers-on did not know the alleviations, -the dear love among them, which was always sweet, the play of the -children, which was never kept under by any misfortune, the household -jests and pleasantries. They got a joke even out of the visits of the -butcher and baker, those awful demands which it was so difficult to -meet, and called the taxman Mr. Lillyvick, and made fun of the -coal-merchant. And then, somehow or other, the kind heavens only knew -how, everybody was paid in the long run, and life was never unsweet. - -And now Hetty was sixteen. She was growing out of the lankness of early -girlhood into a pretty creature--pretty with youth, and sweetness, and -self-unconsciousness, and that exquisite purity of innocence which does -not know what evil is. I am not aware that she had a single feature -worth any one’s notice. Her eyes were as clear as two little stars, but -so are most eyes at sixteen. She was not what her mother had been, but -rather what all good mothers would wish their children to be: something -a little more than her mother, mounted upon the stepping-stone of Mary’s -cheerful troubled existence to the next grade, with something in her -Mary had not, perhaps got from her father, perhaps, what I think most -likely, straight out of heaven. Mary had not been at all afraid of life, -out of sweet ignorance and want of thought; but Hetty knew it, and was -not afraid. She had her dreams, like every creature of her age, her -thoughts of what she would do and be when her hour came; but they never -involved the winning of anything, save perhaps rest and comfort for -those she loved. To Hetty life was a very serious thing. She knew -nothing at all of its pleasures,--probably the defect in her, if she had -a defect (and she must have had, for everybody has), was that she -despised these pleasures. When she read in her story-books of girls -whose dreams were of balls and triumphs, and who were angry with fate -and the world when they did not obtain their share of these delights, -Hetty would throw back her head with disdain. “I am sure girls are not -like that,” she would say. - -“Oh yes, Hetty, girls are like that!” Mary would reply. “I remember -crying my eyes out because Anna and Sophie went to the hunt ball without -me.” - -This would generally lead to recollections of the house which Mary now -called, with a sigh, “my dear old home,” and of all the Prescotts, “the -girls,” and dashing Percy, and “kind old John.” The children had all -heard of Cousin John: how his eyeglass was always dropping from his eye -(so well known was this trait in the family that little Johnny had got -into the trick of it, and would stick a piece of paste-board in his -little eye, which when it fell always produced a laugh), and his light -moustache drooping at the corners, and his lisp, and how he said “Write -to me,” if anything was ever wanted. - -“And did you ever write to him, mamma?” the children would cry. And then -Mary would explain that she had never written so often as she ought, and -impress the lesson upon them always to keep on writing when they might -happen to be away, or they were sure to be sorry for it afterwards. “But -did you write when you wanted anything?” said Janey, the second -daughter, who was very inquisitive. - -“No, of course mother didn’t. As if we were going to take things from -relations, like the Browns!” cried Harry, with a flush of scorn. Harry -was a very proud boy, who suffered by reason of the short sleeves of his -jacket and the short legs of his trousers, as none of the rest did. -Mary shook her head at this, and said there was nothing wrong in taking -things from relations when they were kind. - -“But I never did,” she said. “Sometimes I have thought I ought to have -done it; but I never did. He married, and I never heard anything of him -afterwards, and _she_ was a stranger to me. It was that chiefly that -kept me back. I have not heard anything of him for about a dozen years. -And whether he has sold Horton, or what has become of it, I don’t know. -It is such a wrong thing not to write,” she said, returning to her -moral; “be sure you always keep up the habit of writing whenever you go -away.” - -This, however, has kept us a long time from Hetty’s birthday. Mr. -Asquith had quite recently settled at Summerfield, the western suburb of -Rollinstock, at the time when Hetty completed her sixteenth year. I say -settled, for it was only now that our curate ceased to be a curate, and -became, not, alas! rector or vicar, but incumbent of the new district -church lately built in that flourishing place. It was a flourishing -church also, and everything promised well; but as the endowment was very -small, and the incumbent’s income was dependent upon a precarious -addition of pew-seats, offertories, etc., it was not a very handsome one -for the moment, though promising better things to come. And the fact -that he was independent, subject to no superior in his own parish, was -sweet to a man who had been under orders so long. This beginning was -very hopeful in every way. And Mr. Asquith had the character of being a -very fine preacher, likely to bring all the more intellectual residents -of the place, the great railway people--for the town was quite the -centre of an immense railway system--and all the engineers and persons -who thought something of themselves, to his church. This prospect -encouraged them all, though perhaps the income was not very much better -than that of a curacy. And there were good schools for the boys. The one -thing that Mary sighed after was something of the higher education, of -which everybody talks nowadays, for Hetty. But perhaps it is wrong to -call it the higher education. No Greek nor even Latin did Mary desire -for her daughter--these things were incompatible with her other -duties--but a little music, a little of what had been called -accomplishments in Mary’s own day! In all likelihood these things would -have done Hetty no manner of good,--no, nor the Latin either, nor even -Greek. There are some people to whom education, in the common sense of -the word, is unnecessary. But Mary had a mother’s little vanity for her -child. Hetty was but a poor performer on the piano; and her mother -thought she had a great deal of taste, if it could but be cultivated. -But music lessons are dear, especially in a town where rich mercantile -folk abound. Alas! the boys’ education was a necessity; the girls had to -go to the wall. - -The schoolroom tea was a very magnificent meal on Hetty’s birthday. -Sixteen seemed a great age to the children. It was as if she had -attained her majority. Mary had got her a new white frock for the -occasion _made long_. It was her first long dress, her toga, her robe of -womanhood. And there was a huge cake, largely frosted over with sugar, -if not very rich inside, out of regard for the digestion of the little -ones. And they were all as happy over this tea as if it had been a -sumptuous meal, with champagne flowing. They had not finished when Mr. -Rossmore was announced, who was the Vicar of Rollinstock and a great -personage. Mr. Rossmore was very kind; he was fond of children, and -liked, as he said, to see them happy. And he sent a message from the -drawing-room (in which there were still lingerings of the old Horton -furniture), into which he had been ushered solemnly, to ask if he might -be allowed to share the delights of the children’s tea. He looked round -upon them all with eyes in which there were regrets (for he was that -strange thing a clergyman without any children of his own), and at the -same time that wonder, which is so general with the spectators of such -a sight, how it was that they could be happy on so little, and how the -parents could look so lighthearted with such a burden on their -shoulders--ten children, and the eldest sixteen to-day! - -“It is very appropriate that it should be Miss Hetty’s little fête,” -said Mr. Rossmore, “for it is to her, or at least to you about her, that -my visit really is intended.” - -“To Hetty!” her mother cried, with a voice which was half astonishment -and half dismay, Mr. Rossmore was a widower, and the horrible thought -crossed Mary’s mind, Could he have fallen in love with the child? could -he mean to propose to her? Awful thought! A man of fifty! She looked at -him with alarmed eyes. - -“For Hetty?” said Mr. Asquith tranquilly. He thought of parish work, of -schools, or some of the minor charities, in which the Vicar might wish -Hetty to take a part. And the children, feeling in the midst of their -rejoicings that something grave had suddenly come in, looked up with -round eyes. Janey edged to the end of the table to listen; for whatever -was going on, Janey was always determined to know. - -“Perhaps,” said Mary tremulously, “it would be better to bring Mr. -Rossmore his cup of tea to the drawing-room, now that he has seen you -all in the midst of your revels. For this noise is enough to make any -one deaf who is not used to it, like papa and me.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XIII. - -A CONFERENCE. - - -They all sat down solemnly upon the old chairs, in their faded paint and -gilding, with their old seats in fine embroidered work, which had been -so handsome in their day, and still breathed of grandparents and an -ancestral home. The Asquiths’ drawing-room had always been rather -heterogeneous, with some things in it which money could not buy, and -which they thought very little of, and some that were to be had cheap -anywhere, for which, having acquired them by the sweat of their brow, -they cared a great deal. They did not remark these contrarieties, having -so many other things to think of, but Mr. Rossmore did, and wondered how -certain articles came to be there, sometimes asking himself how people -with so many graceful old things about them could endure the vulgar new, -sometimes what right the purchasers of the vulgar new could have to that -beautiful old. He did not know anything about their history, but only -that they had a very large family of nice children, and were in -consequence poor. They did not themselves say much of their poverty, but -the people about did, the chief people in the parish, and especially the -district ladies, who were disturbed by it, and wondered, not inaudibly, -whether it was possible for the poor Asquiths to give so many children -enough to eat. It was this inquiry, very much urged upon him, that had -brought Mr. Rossmore here to-day. - -He was seized with a little timidity when he began to speak. Something -in Mary’s look, he could not have told what, an air of dignity, a -half-alarm lest something should be said to her which should be -unpalatable or offensive, caught and startled him. He could see that the -poor incumbent’s wife was afraid of being affronted or put in an -uncomfortable position by what he was about to say: and in the little -gleam of light that thus seemed to fall upon her, Mr. Rossmore began to -perceive something more in Mrs. Asquith than the mere parson’s wife, -with a large family, accustomed to all the shifts of poverty. He became -in his turn a little alarmed and nervous, wondering if he should offend -them, wondering if----. But he reflected that no reasonable person could -have any right to be offended with such a proposal as that he was about -to make, and further, that if the Asquiths preferred their pride to the -real interests of their children, it was a very poor sort of pride, and -not one to be respected. He took courage accordingly, and cleared his -throat. - -“I hope you will not think what I am going to say impertinent, Mrs. -Asquith. I hope I may not be making a mistake. If I am, I am sure I may -throw myself on your charity to forgive me--for I mean anything but -offence.” - -“Offence!” said Mr. Asquith. “I am certain of that: and my wife is not -a touchy person to take offence.” - -“I will tell you what it is without more ado,” Mr. Rossmore said. “I -don’t know the people myself, but my brother, who has had to do with the -lady in the way of business, has written to me about it. I may be making -a mistake,” he repeated. “Perhaps you have no such intentions for your -children. Miss Hetty perhaps----. But I must tell you what it is. Mrs. -Asquith”--he faced towards Mary, for it was of her that he was -afraid--“there is a young lady wanted to be with a child in the -country--oh, not as a governess: dear me, no, not the least in the world -as a governess. This is what it is. There is a little girl in the -country, a great heiress, I believe, a little delicate--not queer--no, I -don’t think she is at all queer. She has a governess with her, an -excellent person, very accomplished, a good musician, and speaking all -the languages. What they want is a young lady a little older, but not -too old to be a companion to the child, who would share all her -lessons, and get every advantage, and a salary besides of fifty pounds a -year. It is quite an unusual offer, quite a prize for any one who could -accept it. I hope, Mrs. Asquith, that you will not think I am taking too -much upon me. I thought if you ever contemplated--if, in short, you had -thought of--of school or finishing lessons or anything of that sort----” - -“Why should you apologise? You are making us the kindest offer. Mary, -surely you must feel with me that Mr. Rossmore----” - -“I am sure you are very kind,” cried Mary, “oh, very kind; nothing could -be more kind.” There was a little confusion about her, as if she had -received a blow: and she was flushed and uneasy. It was something of a -shock. To think of Hetty going--to a situation: going--to be somebody’s -companion! It gave Mary a little sick shock at her heart. But she was a -sensible woman, and she had not come thus far on the path of life -without learning that pride was a thing to be put at once under the foot -of the mother of a family. She regained after a moment entire -possession of herself. “It is a little startling to think of Hetty, such -a child as she is, going away, earning money,” she said, with a quiver -of a smile. “It seems so strange, for a girl too. And to lose her out of -the house will be something, something----. But, Mr. Rossmore, you are -very, very kind. I take it as the greatest kindness. It sounds as if it -might be--the very thing for Hetty. Harry, don’t you think----” - -What with the sudden shock and all the complications of feeling -involved, Mrs. Asquith had hard ado not to cry. She laughed a little -instead, and looked towards her husband. It was the first time it had -ever been suggested to her that her children were not to be always at -her side. Mr. Asquith divined a good deal, but not all, that was in her -mind. - -“My dear,” he said, “you are the only person to decide such a matter. -Nobody ever understands a girl like her mother. You were anxious about -her music, and that she should learn something. To me it seems a -wonderful chance, but it is you who must be the judge. Hetty,” he said, -turning to his brother clergyman with a smile, “is part of herself.” - -“I can well imagine that; one can see what she is; that is why I came -here at once, for if it does not shock you to think of a separation at -all, it _is_ a wonderful chance. I never heard in my experience of -anything better. The little girl is only ten, but very forward for her -age; and Miss Hetty is so used to children.” - -“And to get all we want for her, and be paid into the bargain;” cried -Mary, with a nervous laugh. “We are very much obliged to you, Mr. -Rossmore. I am sure Hetty will not hesitate for a moment; and neither do -I.” - -“And where is this wonderful child?” said Mr. Asquith, “and why is she -in want of a companion? and where does she live?” - -“I don’t know the whole story. My brother is in the law. All sorts of -romances seem to come into his hands. So far as I can make out, both -parents are living, the father mad, shut up in a lunatic asylum; the -mother, who has all the money, is abroad. I fancy she’s an American, -smitten with the love of an old family and an old house.” - -“It is an old family, then, and an old house.” - -“They say, one of the most perfect specimens of an old English house, a -long way off, though--in Redcornshire--a place called Horton.” - -Mary uttered a cry. She had thought somehow, she could not tell how, -that this name was coming. Mr. Asquith, too, cried, “Horton!” with the -wildest amazement, for no presentiment had visited his breast. - -“You know the place?” their visitor said. - -Mary gave her husband a warning look. - -“We knew it very well in our youth, oh, very well. It is startling to -hear of it so suddenly. And what is the name of the people who are there -now? It is long, long since I have heard.” - -“Their name is Rotherham,” said Mr. Rossmore. - -Mary gave her husband once more a look--of mingled relief and -disappointment. And then it was decided that Hetty should be called in -to hear what she thought of it, and then that Mr. Rossmore should write -to his brother the lawyer to say that the wished-for girl had been -found. It was all over so quickly, before any one could realise what had -taken place. Hetty on being questioned had looked at her mother, and -said, “If you can do without me, mamma,” with a flush of sudden -excitement. She had not hesitated or expressed any alarm. For even Hetty -was not impervious to that charm of novelty which is so delightful to -youth. There rushed into her young soul all at once a desire to go out -to these fresh fields and pastures new, to see the world, to judge for -herself what life was like; and then there was the delightful thought -that to her, Hetty, only a girl, whom nobody had thought of in that -light, should come the privilege--to her the first of all the family--of -earning money, of helping at home. Hetty’s dreams had taken that shape -almost from her childhood, though she had never known how they were to -be carried out. Her little romance had been to pay all the bills -secretly, so that mamma, when she set out on that hard task of -apportioning so much to each, should find, to her amazement, that all -had been settled! She had told this dream to Janey, and the two had -discussed it often, but never had hit upon a way in which it could be -done. Hetty had thought she might perhaps have done it by writing -stories, but her first attempt in that way had not been a success. And -the girls had generally ended by dwelling on mamma’s wonder and joy when -she found all the bills paid, and the unusual happiness that would -succeed of having a little money and nothing to do with it, and being -able to buy a hundred things which at present they had to do without. -But now fifty pounds a year! Hetty, it must be allowed, did not take -“the advantages” upon which Mr. Rossmore had laid so much stress, and -which had been her mother’s inducement, much into account. She was not -enthusiastic about the lessons. To play the piano better would be -pleasant, but it was evident she was not a musician born, for she was -without enthusiasm even about that. What she did think of was the glory -of being able to help and the pleasure of the novelty: a sensation -intensified by feeling, by the thrill of going out into the world like a -girl in a novel, and tempered by a sinking of heart which would come -upon her when she thought of going away. But at sixteen it is quite -possible to get the good of the anticipated novelty and the sensation of -going out upon the world, and yet forget the preliminary step, which -notwithstanding is of the first necessity, of going away. - -The arrangements were not long of being completed. It appeared that -little Miss Rotherham lived something of a cloistered life in the great -old house. Her mother was away at the other end of the world, and had -business or something else to enforce her absence for a year or more, -during which time her little girl was under very close regulations. She -was not to go outside of the park, except now and then for a drive. She -was never to be left alone. If Miss Hofland, the governess, was off -duty, her young companion was to be with her, and no visitors or any -communication from without were to be allowed. “Extraordinary -precautions to be adopted for a child of ten,” Mr. Rossmore said. “My -brother says there are sufficient family reasons, but does not explain. -Except this mystery, I don’t know that there is anything to find fault -with. The mother is an American. I don’t know that this fact affords any -explanation. Still their manners are a little different from ours.” - -“Not in the way of shutting up their children,” said Mr. Asquith -thoughtfully. - -Said Mary, “These regulations don’t trouble me. A child of ten is best -at home. There is plenty of room for her to walk and play in the park, -oh, plenty. You remember, Harry----” There is no telling what -recollections might have been called up had not Mr. Rossmore’s presence -checked them. She paused a little, musing, excited, seeing before her -every glade and hollow. “Perhaps the lady is a woman with a system,” she -said. “She may have some plan of her own for making children perfect. I -wonder if Mr. Rossmore knows, Harry--if he knows whether she is related -to the old family?” - -Mary did not know why it was that she made this inquiry timidly through -her husband, as it were at secondhand, instead of inquiring simply as -otherwise she should have done. Mr. Rossmore could give no answer to the -question. He knew nothing about the Prescotts. And it was so long since -they had heard anything, and so much may happen in a dozen years. She -said nothing of her relationship, nor that it was her home to which the -child was thus going as a stranger. If all were strangers there now, -what did it matter? To think that the family had thus disappeared out of -Horton gave her a pang. Rotherham? She had never once heard the name -before. They must be entirely strangers, foreigners, not even belonging -to the neighbourhood. Since the old race had died away, perhaps it was -better that it should be so. And it was just as well for Hetty that, -since she was going to Horton, she should be kept in this almost -monastic seclusion. For Asquith is not a common name, and people might -inquire and insist on knowing who Miss Asquith was. It was better, -certainly better, that Hetty should not run the risk of -cross-examination from old friends. All things were for the best. And, -after all, it was only for a year. - -Only for a year! While it was a month off, Hetty thought a year nothing -at all. She was even conscious of a thrill of eagerness to meet it, a -desire to hurry on the time. A year in a romantic old house, in a sort -of mediæval retirement, shut in like a princess in a fairy tale! She -almost longed to feel the solitude encircle her, the wind blowing among -the trees, which was the only sound she should hear. But as the time of -her departure approached, Hetty began to change her mind, and the time -of her absence to draw out and become larger and larger, till it took -the proportions of a century. “They will be quite grown up before I come -home,” she said to Mary, bending over the curly heads of the two -youngest, as they lay in their little cribs side by side: and it took -all Hetty’s power of self-control to prevent her from bedewing the -pillows with her tears. Janey said all she could to comfort the exile. -“I wish it was me,” Janey cried, whose eyes were dancing with eagerness. -“Oh, I wish it was me!” The one dreadful thing, however, which made even -Janey acknowledge a pang, was that in four months it would be Christmas, -and Hetty would not be able to come home. What kind of Christmas could -be possible without Hetty? and oh, what would Hetty do alone, with -nobody but a strange little girl of ten and a governess, all by herself -on Christmas Day? - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XIV. - -GOING AWAY. - - -“You will be sure to write regularly, Hetty, twice a week at the least? -You must not forget; you must never forget.” - -“Oh, never, mamma!” cried poor Hetty, with a quiver in her voice. - -“And try if you can hear something about Cousin John. The clergyman is -sure to know. Don’t ask right out, but try what you can discover. You -can say that your mother knew that part of the country, and that you had -heard of the Prescotts. Oh, how careless it was of me not to keep on -writing! You must be very regular, Hetty--twice a week, at the very -least.” - -“I shall not forget, mamma.” - -Hetty’s poor little face was very pale; her lips were trembling. The -family had come, all but the very little ones, to the railway to see her -off. But the boys were amused with the locomotive, and the girls with -looking at the people; and Hetty felt herself forgotten already. What -would it be when she was really away? - -And then she relapsed into a spasm of weeping when the inevitable moment -came, and the train got into motion. Poor little Hetty! They would all -go back, go home, and the business of every day would go on as before, -while she was flying away into the unknown, with that clang and wild -tumult of sound. Hetty thought she had never realised what a railway -journey was before, the clang as of giants’ hoofs going, the rush and -sweep through the air, as if impelled by some horrible force that could -not be appealed to to stop, or made to understand that you wanted to get -out, to get out and go back again! This was the first thought of her -little scared soul. Horses with a man driving could be made to stop, -but this engine never: and what if it should go on, on, to the end of -the world? It seemed so likely, so probable that it might do so, in the -first dreadful sense of the unescapable which overwhelmed the girl’s -mind. Of course when she came to herself she was a quite reasonable -little girl, and knew that this could not be so, and that, as exactly as -is in human possibility, the train would arrive at Horton station, where -she was bound, after stopping at many other stations on the way. And -presently Hetty dried her eyes, and began to look at the country; and -things went a little better with her, until she had another fit of panic -and horror at the end of her journey, when she stepped out, trembling, -all alone, and saw, half with terror, half with pride, the brougham -waiting which was to carry her, behind two sleek and shining horses, in -all the glory of a “private carriage” (a thing Hetty knew nothing of), -to Horton. She had been driven to the station, she was aware, in the -Horton carriage when she went away, a baby, with her parents, and this -knowledge--for it was not a recollection--made everything seem all the -stranger. It was her mother’s home she was going to, and yet such a -strange, unknown place. - -It seemed to Hetty as if she had known it all her life when the old -house came into view. The two wings were a story lower than the centre -of the house, which rose into a high roof, with mansard windows rising -over the stone parapet; from the east wing the ground sloped away, -leaving a rather steep bank of velvet lawn; the other was level with the -flower-garden, and seemed partially inhabited. But the lower windows on -the west side were all blank and closely shuttered. That was the -picture-gallery, Hetty knew, raising its row of long windows above. She -wondered if it still was as mamma had so often described it, with the -Prescotts’ pictures all stately on the walls, her own ancestors, Hetty’s -ancestors, though nobody knew. The carriage drove up to the door, which -did not stand open now, as it had done in mamma’s time; only a large -person, in a black silk gown, came out, with a not very amiable look, -to receive Hetty. “Oh, it’s only the young lady,” she said, with a -slight toss of her head, and bade an attendant maid look after the -little box and bag which contained the girl’s modest requirements. Then, -with a wave of her hand, this grand personage bade Hetty follow, and led -her through the hall and a long passage to a bright room behind, looking -out upon the trimmest of artificial gardens, all cut out in flower-beds, -and still blazing with colour, red geraniums and yellow calceolarias and -asters in all colours, though it was October. The colour and the light -almost dazzled Hetty, after the cool, subdued tones of the hall. Here a -little girl, with her hair in a flood over her shoulders--dark hair, -very much _crêpé_--sat at the piano, with a tall and slim figure, on -which from top to toe the word “governess” seemed written, seated beside -her. The child went on playing like a little automaton; but the lady -rose when Hetty came timidly in, following the housekeeper. “Here’s the -young lady, Miss Hofland,” that personage said, with little ceremony, -and turned away without another word. Miss Hofland was very thin, very -gentle, with a slightly deprecating air. She put out her hand to Hetty, -and gave her an emphatic grasp, which seemed to mean an exhortation to -silence as well as a greeting. “How do you do? Rhoda’s at her lesson,” -she said in a half-whisper, signing to the girl to sit down, which -Hetty, breathless with the oppressive sense of novelty and strangeness, -was very glad to do. She sat down feeling as if she had fallen out of a -different planet, out of another world, while the little girl went on -playing her exercises, with the “One, two, three, four, one, two, three, -four,” of the governess’s half-whispering voice. What a curious scene it -was! Hetty had time to note everything in the room, and to take in the -red and yellow and blue of the flower-beds outside, and the pictures on -the walls, and the trifles on the table, while the stumbling sound of -the piano, now checked to have a passage played over again, now -pounding - -[Illustration: “‘HOW DO YOU DO, MISS ASQUITH?’” (_p. 201._)] - -monotonously with that “One, two, three,” went on and on. Little Miss -Rotherham’s hair was very dark, very much crimped, and standing out in a -bush, very unlike the natural fair locks of the children at home. She -was about the same size as little Mary, Hetty said to herself, but Mary -played better, though she had never had any lessons, and her hair was so -soft, falling with just a soft twist in it, which was natural. But oh, -how much happier Mary must be with all her brothers and sisters. Hetty -ended by saying, “Poor little thing!” to herself quite softly as the -lesson went on. - -When Rhoda got up from her lesson, she came, instructed by the -governess, and gave Hetty her hand, and said, “How do you do, Miss -Asquith?” She had a little dark face, quite in keeping with her dark -hair, and a small person, very slight and straight, not round and plump, -as the Asquiths were at that age. Hetty, who, by reason of her large -family was truly maternal in her way, and knew all about children, -regretted instinctively that this little thing was so thin, and wondered -if she were delicate, or if she were getting better of something, which -might account for it. At the same moment a footman brought in tea--a -footman in livery, who seemed to Hetty’s unaccustomed eyes grotesque and -out of place--and then the three proceeded to make acquaintance over -their bread-and-butter. - -“You have had rather a long journey. I fear you must be very tired,” the -governess said. - -“Oh no,” said Hetty. “It is not like walking. In the railway there is -nothing to tire one.” - -“Don’t you think so? But perhaps you have had a great deal of -travelling?” - -“I never,” said Hetty, the tears coming to her eyes, “was away from home -before.” - -“That is always rather a trial,” said Miss Hofland, sympathetically, -“but I hope you’ll soon feel quite at home with Rhoda and me. We are all -that is here, nothing but Rhoda and me, and the servants of course. We -lead a very quiet life, but you heard of that, no doubt. We take our -walk in the park, and we pay great attention to our lessons, oh, great -attention, Miss Asquith. We are working very hard in order to astonish -mamma when she comes back. We think that when she sees the progress that -has been made, she will be very much pleased.” - -At this Rhoda lifted up a somewhat sharp little voice, and declared that -she did not think mamma cared. - -“Oh, how can you say so, my dear child? No one knows how much mothers -care. Perhaps they may not say so to their little girls, but it is the -first wish of their hearts to see their children get on. Isn’t that so, -Miss Asquith? I am sure you know.” - -“It is mamma’s first wish--oh, to have everything she can for the -children,” cried Hetty, the tears, which were so very near her eyes, -coming again. - -“I told you so, Rhoda,” said Miss Hofland, with a little air of triumph. - -Rhoda made no reply. Her soul apparently was filled with no thought but -bread-and-butter. There was a precocious gravity and stiffness about her -which half frightened Hetty. It appeared that it was Miss Hofland who -was the nearest her own age, while Rhoda was years beyond them both in -seriousness, learned in all the cares of earth. This impression did not -diminish for the first week of Hetty’s sojourn at Horton. Familiarity -dispelled it a little afterwards, and made her perceive that the child’s -gravity was one of the many marks of shyness, and that the nature -beneath was, after all, like child-nature in general, thoughtless and -changeable, varying to natural gaiety when the sense of strangeness was -overcome. But still there was a shadow upon the little face which not -even shyness could account for. This was partly physical, for the little -girl had immense dark eyes, with long eyelashes, which overshadowed her -little countenance, and partly mental, as if some cloud hung over her, -unknown to the rest of the world. It was not till Hetty had grown -familiar with the strange secluded life of the place that she knew -anything more. It was a very strange life, the house full of servants, -the imperious housekeeper managing everything as if no one but herself -had to be consulted, and the three simple feminine creatures for whom, -so far as appeared, all this costly household existed, living in their -little spot of space--the morning room, which opened on the garden; the -spare, nicely furnished place in which they dined; the set of bedrooms -on the same side of the house--all these rooms were on the ground floor, -one opening into another. Between Hetty’s room and that of Miss Hofland -ran a passage, but this was the only division. Rhoda’s maid slept in the -room beyond Hetty’s. They were thus altogether separated from the rest -of the house. And so far as the bright tints of a cheerful garden could -give animation, everything in their outlook was bright. Their -sitting-room communicated with a conservatory. They had flowers in -abundance, an aviary of birds among the flowers, and everything sweet -and graceful about them. They were like princesses living in an -enchanted garden, their little meals exquisitely cooked and served by -the same magnificent man in livery, wonderful hothouse fruits always -produced for their dessert. To Hetty the wealth seemed boundless that -surrounded her. Was this, she wondered, how country houses were always -kept up? Mamma had said the Prescotts were poor. To be sure, the -Prescotts were here no longer. “But what a change,” she said to herself, -“what a wonderful change for mamma, from Horton to that little house at -home, overflowing with children. Oh, what a change!” Hetty did not -remember that the children had come by degrees, and that gradually the -sphere of existence and all its motives had changed for Mary. The wide -greenness of the park, the giant trees, the pushing aside, as it were, -of the world, so that breathing space and quiet might be secured for -those favourites of fortune, produced a great effect upon Hetty. And to -think that her mother had been brought up amid those shady glades and -wide stretches of tranquil greenness! “Oh,” thought Hetty, “what would -she give only to have permission to walk in such a park with the -children now?” - -When she had become quite familiar with this strange life, and had begun -to feel herself, as people say, “at home,” although it was so different, -so very different, so much worse and better than home, Hetty acquired -various scraps of information about the strange household. There were -never any visitors at Horton except the doctor and the clergyman, the -former a young man, very grave and sedate in appearance, who appeared -frequently at the house, and was constantly met by the little party in -their walks in the park, when he seemed to be going or coming from the -Hall, but always stopped to explain that he was on his way to some -distant place, and had taken advantage of the permission he had to take -the short cut across the park. The clergyman, on the other hand, was old -and very cheerful, a gay little white-haired old man, who took tea -about once a week with Miss Hofland and her charges, and whose visits -were their brightest moments, Mr. Hayman, the rector, was always gay; -the young doctor, whose name was Darrell, was always serious. Except -these two, nobody ever came to the house. This roused little questions -in the mind of Hetty, who was young enough to accept whatever happened -as the common order of affairs. And it was only when Miss Hofland took -the girl into her confidence that any question arose in her mind. Miss -Hofland was older and more alive to the peculiarities of their -cloistered life. - -“Don’t you think it is a strange thing, my dear,” she said to Hetty -suddenly, when she had been about a month at Horton, “that a mother -should go away to the end of the world for a whole year, and leave her -only little child all alone in a big house like this?” - -They had been sitting together over the fire for a long time in silence. -Rhoda had gone to bed, the great silence of the wintry park had closed -over the house, and there was the darkness of a moonless night, which -seemed somehow to creep into the rooms, and intensify the stillness and -sense of seclusion from all the world. Hetty was much startled by this -question. It took her some time to think what her companion could -mean--a mother at the end of the world, and an only little child all -alone! She looked up surprised, repeating almost unconsciously, “A -mother--at the end of the world!” - -“Yes,” said Miss Hofland; “don’t say you haven’t asked yourself the -same----” - -“Do you mean--Rhoda?” faltered Hetty, feeling as if the suggestion was -in some sort a betrayal of trust. - -“I mean Rhoda’s mother; who else could I mean? Did you ever hear of such -a thing before? There are a great many things I don’t understand about -this house.” - -Hetty gazed once more, but put no answering question, nothing that could -induce the governess to go on. The girl’s fine sense of good faith was -shocked. It seemed to be a sort of wickedness and treachery to discuss -the circumstances of the place in which she was living. But all the same -these questions liberated Hetty’s own thoughts. Now that it had been -suggested to her, she too became aware of many wonderings on the eve of -bursting forth. Why? and why? But there was no answer to be had. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XV. - -FIRESIDE TALK. - - -“I have been here only six months,” said Miss Hofland. “I am engaged for -a year, like you. I was sent on trial at first to see if the child would -take to me, poor little thing! I didn’t think she could take to anybody: -but I’ve changed my opinion.” She added, “Hetty, she is fond of you.” - -“Poor child!” - -“Yes, poor child! but she is a rich child at the same time, and luckier -a great deal than either you or I.” - -“Oh, don’t say so, Miss Hofland. If you had ever been with us at home, -you would not say any one was happier than me.” - -“Well, my dear, so much the better for you. I never pretended to be very -happy. I have no home at all, and I have been teaching children in one -house and another since I was sixteen. I have never had any youth. It is -hard to go on teaching all one’s life, and that not even for somebody -one cares for, but only just for one’s self, to keep the life in one, -which one doesn’t much wish to keep.” - -“Oh, Miss Hofland!” Hetty cried. - -“It is quite true, my dear. Why should one? One has to live, because one -has been brought into the world. And then one goes on working, a -stranger everywhere, never with any home just in order to have enough to -eat and clothes to put on. Oh, I have always envied the poor girls, whom -everybody is sorry for, who have to send their money home to their -mothers! It has always been said I was so well off, I had nobody but -myself to think of. Well, don’t let us talk like this. It frightens you, -and it does me no good. My dear, this is a very strange house.” - -“It is very quiet,” Hetty hazarded: and then felt frightened for what -she had said. - -“Quiet! It wasn’t quiet at one time, I believe, when she first married -him; and now they say he’s mad, and she is away. And why is that doctor -always about, my dear? Don’t you notice how often he is here? The -servants are not always ill, but my belief is that Mr. Darrell is here -every day; and when we meet him in the park, how is it that he’s always -so anxious to explain where he’s going? I don’t understand about that -man.” - -“He looks very nice,” said Hetty, apologetically, feeling that it was -hard to condemn a man who probably was not to blame. - -“Oh, he is nice enough. I don’t say anything about his niceness. But why -is he so often here? Mrs. Mills is not a confirmed invalid, but he is -always having long talks with her, and when any one sees them they look -startled. Would you like to hear what I think? I think both Mrs. Mills -and Mr. Darrell are in the secret, and know why Mrs. Rotherham is away: -and perhaps Mr. Hayman too.” - -“But then it must be quite right if the clergyman knows it,” said Hetty, -brought up with a faith in clergymen which her companion did not share. -Miss Hofland shook her head. - -“I don’t say it’s right, and I don’t say it’s wrong. I say it’s very -strange. Clergymen know very queer things sometimes. They can’t help it. -Indeed, people who do queer things are very apt in my experience to tell -a clergyman. It seems like getting a sanction to it. If he tells them -not to do it, they don’t mind; they take their own way: but they always -feel a satisfaction in thinking he knows. It shares the responsibility. -He can’t be so very hard upon them after if he has known all the time: -and I daresay some of them think they can persuade God it’s all right, -because the clergyman knows.” - -“Oh, Miss Hofland!” cried Hetty again. - -“My dear, I know you are shocked by what I say; and I wouldn’t speak to -you in this way if I had any one else to speak to. It is more than -human nature is equal to, to keep quite silent. One can’t help noticing, -you know. I’ve been in a great many houses, and known a great many -family secrets. There is almost always something to find out, but -generally it is quite on the surface; either it is a son who is making -them unhappy, or a girl who has a love affair, or husband and wife don’t -get on: these are the common things. But this place is full of mystery. -Don’t you feel it in the air?” - -“I should never have thought of anything----” said Hetty: and paused, -afraid to seem to reproach her companion, or to say anything that was -not quite true. - -“If I had not put it in your head? I shouldn’t wonder. When I was like -you, I never took any notice. You are not what I call governessy, my -dear: but you would be the same as I am if you went in for my kind of -life. I can’t help noticing now. I find out things without meaning to; -you do when you are in a family without belonging to it, and have no -occupation for your mind but to watch, and nobody to say it to. Then -every little thing is an interest, and to put two and two together---- -But I won’t frighten you. Do your people intend you to be a governess, -my dear?” - -This question gave Hetty a still greater shock than all the rest. She -cried, “Oh, I hope not!” in instinctive alarm; then grew very red, and -looked wistfully at her companion, feeling that to repudiate Miss -Holland’s profession in this eager way might be an offence. - -“You would always have your family to fall back upon,” said Miss -Hofland, “and you would be able to help them. If there are so many of -you, it would be your duty to do that. And though it’s not Paradise, -it’s better than marrying a poor curate, and bringing dozens of children -into the world to misery, which is probably what you would do if you -were not a governess. I am not fond of this way of living, but it’s -better than that; at least you have nobody but yourself, and when you -die there’s an end of it. The first money I ever laid by was just -enough to bury me. I’ve always kept that safe. I should like to have -things decent, and not to be thrown on charity for my last expenses. And -when that comes, there’s an end of it: that’s a great comfort; nobody -else will be left to trouble and toil on account of me.” - -The governess delivered this little monologue in quite a cheerful tone -of voice, without any appearance of being deeply moved by it; her dismal -philosophy was so unaffected that it had ceased to touch her feeling. -She described this desolate mental condition in tones of steady matter -of fact, while the young creature beside her gazed at her with a dismay -which was speechless. A thousand thoughts ran through Hetty’s mind as -she spoke. To be a governess! would not that be her duty? ought not that -to be her life too? She had never been called on to think of such -questions. There was so much to do at home. It had not occurred to her -that she could even be spared. To help mamma seemed the natural use of -the eldest girl. Now there swept through Hetty’s mind a tumult of -confused thoughts and newly-awakened alarms. Ah! who could doubt it? -This was what must, what ought to be, that she who was the eldest should -go out into the world and help the rest. How often had she heard mamma -wondering, calculating how to get the boys the needful indispensable -education, which would be necessary to fit them for making their way; -and it had never occurred to Hetty to say, “Of course I must go and be a -governess, and send home the money.” Was it perhaps because she did not -know enough to teach? But she knew enough for the nursery. She did teach -the little ones at home. And now another thought suddenly leaped into -her young soul. Her mother had sent her because of the “advantages,” -advantages to which Hetty had given so little thought. She perceived it -all now. This was why mamma wanted her to have advantages, that she -might be fitted for the life she would have to adopt, that she might be -clever enough to be a governess! The discovery (as she thought it) fell -into Hetty’s little heart like lead, and then a flush of shame swept -over her--that she should not have divined it for herself; that she -should not have seen that as the eldest it was her duty to help, and to -help steadily. This was quite different from the little romance of -paying the bills secretly, which had so much delighted her imagination; -as much different as the actual burden of life is from the enthusiasm of -the ideal. It did not inspire her as that had done; on the contrary, it -fell upon her like something crushing and terrible. Not for this year -only, as she had thought--not to go back triumphant with her fifty -pounds, and buy mamma a sealskin, and settle forever at home. Ah, no! -very different. She had left home for good, Hetty said to herself; she -must never think of home again but as a holiday refuge. Her destiny was -like Miss Hofland’s--to live in other people’s houses, to teach other -people’s children, to lay up carefully out of her first earnings enough -to bury her. Oh, dreadful, dreadful thought! All this while Miss -Hofland went on quietly with her talk, not distressed at all by the -miserable provision which she had thought it right to make. - -“You should get up a little earlier to practise, my dear. I shall always -be willing to give you a little more time. Rhoda could do very well -without you for an hour in the afternoon, after dinner, you know. And if -you liked to take up any subject after she has gone to bed?--We might -read a little French, for instance; or German. You don’t know German at -all, do you? I never grudge a little trouble when it’s for a purpose, -and to help on one who has an object. One has more satisfaction in doing -that--helping a comrade, as the men would say--than giving lessons to a -pack of little girls who don’t want to learn, and never will do any good -with it. Should you like to begin German? Well, my dear, I’ll look you -out my old grammars, and we’ll begin to-morrow night.” - -“You are very, very kind, Miss Hofland. What can I ever do for you, to -show my gratitude? Mamma will be so thankful: so--happy.” - -It went against the grain with Hetty in the first pang of this discovery -to think that mamma would be happy, and yet there was nothing but thanks -and gratitude due to Miss Hofland. The girl was half choked by this -conflict of gratitude and misery, and did not know what to say. - -“Well, my dear, you must work very hard, and take advantage of all your -opportunities,” said Miss Hofland; “one always regrets it in after life -if one misses a chance. But it’s time now to go to bed. One wise thing -in this hermitage,” she added, “is that they give us such good fires. Is -your fire always good, my dear?” The governess followed Hetty along the -corridor, into which this suite of rooms opened. It was very dimly -lighted, and the two figures with their twinkling candles had a -mysterious effect between the two dark wainscoted walls, which reflected -the flicker of the lights. Miss Hofland went with Hetty into her room, -and looked round it. “Yours is the only French window,” she said; “it -opens into the garden, don’t you know. I prefer the sash-windows, they -are much safer. But why don’t they shut your shutters and draw your -curtains, my dear? You must not put up with any neglect.” - -“Oh, I don’t like it so dark. I like to see the sky. I can’t breathe -when the curtains are drawn. I am not accustomed to curtains,” said -Hetty, feeling that she was making a confession of poverty. Miss Hofland -gave an approving nod. - -“It is a great deal better for the health,” she said; “still I can’t -sleep unless it is dark, and they keep out the cold in this big house. I -hope you always see that your window is well fastened. I must speak to -Mrs. Mills about it. To live in this queer way, with a regiment of -servants and not to be attended to, would be too absurd. Good-night, my -dear,” Miss Hofland said. Her room was on the other side of the little -passage, which also had a window looking out across the flower-beds of -the parterre to the ghostly depths of the park. It was a moonlight -night, and they both lingered looking out upon the strange, silent -scene. The flower-beds were full of winterly chrysanthemums--for it was -by this time November--which drooped their tall heads in the frosty air. -The trees beyond stood up half stripped, showing here and there their -great branches, with a leaf or two fluttering in the wind against the -sky. Miss Hofland opened her own door with a shudder. “How cold it -looks,” she said--“how still and deserted! I am glad everything is snug -and shut up in my room. If I were to look out much longer I should see -ghosts, I know I should. Run away, my dear, and get to bed.” - -Hetty heard the little click of the key which Miss Hofland always turned -at night, a precaution which had amused the girl on her first coming. -“Fancy mamma locking her door!” she had said to herself. But it was -eerie standing by that passage window by herself. She went back to her -room and put down her candle, and took down her hair. Her mother had -always been proud of Hetty’s hair. It was brown and silky, and very -abundant, and, indeed, it was not so very long since it was first -twisted up in that grown-up way which had made Hetty feel so dignified. -Now that she had attained to that privilege she liked to shake it down, -and feel it about her, rippling over her shoulders. But she had no -leisure for any play that night. Her mind was overwhelmed with her new -thoughts. An entire revelation had been made to her of her duty, of what -girls were born for. To think she should have been so stupid, to suppose -that all that was wanted was helping mamma with the children, mending, -making, overlooking the housework! No, indeed, that was not all. It -would be years before even Harry, the eldest boy, could earn anything; -while Hetty was the eldest of all, and the first claim of duty naturally -came to her. She strayed towards the window, half-undressed, to look out -as people naturally do when they are full of thought, without any regard -even to the moonlight, not thinking of anything outside, absorbed in -those meditations which were not cheerful. The long pale distance -between the trees, the masses of distant shadow, the chrysanthemums -drooping as if whispering to each other close at hand, seemed to give a -little air and outlet to the musing of her heart. - -But all at once Hetty gave a smothered cry, and clung to the nearest -solid thing, feeling as if the ground was reeling away from under her -feet. Over the grass, which was damp and sodden with winter dews, -winding among the beds and ranks of chrysanthemums, what was that she -saw? Something black in the moonlight, a moving figure, the sight of -which made her heart stand still. Her eyes seemed to strain out of her -head, her heart to jump into her throat in sudden panic and horror. A -man! Hetty rushed to the door in the first impulse after her senses -returned to her; but then she remembered the key turned in Miss -Hofland’s door; and though she opened her own softly, she closed it -again, and locked it too, in her terror. And then she returned to the -window, drawn as by a spell, to watch that mysterious figure slowly -moving round and round among the drooping winter flowers. - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XVI. - -ALARMS. - - -“Have you a headache, my dear? I am sure you have a headache. You are -looking quite ghostly. Poor little thing! you look as if you had not -slept all night.” - -“Oh, it is nothing,” said Hetty. “I didn’t sleep very well, I got off my -sleep somehow.” - -“I know; people talk about the sleep of youth, but I can remember many -nights, when I was a girl like you, when I never closed my eyes. Take -your tea, my dear, and it will refresh you. I suppose as you couldn’t -sleep you got to thinking, and cried for your mother like a baby, and to -go home.” - -“Oh, Miss Hofland!” cried Hetty. - -“Yes, I know very well how girls do who have got mothers to cry after. I -used to envy them, not having one. Don’t cry now, but take your -breakfast and cheer up a little. Have a little of this nice toast. When -you cannot have what you want, you should try to get all the good you -can out of what you have,” the governess said. This philosophy of her -profession was dreary, and not suited to Hetty’s tremulous and -unaccustomed ease. - -“Didn’t you sleep?” said Rhoda. “Oh, isn’t it awfully quiet in the night -when one can’t sleep?” The child, who had thawed very much out of her -first gravity, threw her arms round Hetty and kissed her; but while she -gave her this embrace asked, with a nervous whisper in her ear, “Did you -hear anything?--did you see anything?” with an anxious look. - -“I heard the stable clock, and the hours striking from the village,” -said Hetty. “Oh! don’t say anything more. It was only that I couldn’t -sleep.” - -Mrs. Mills looked keenly at her from the other side of the table. She -seemed to examine the girl’s pale face with questioning eyes. She came -in every morning while they were at breakfast, for orders, she said, but -there were never any orders to give her. She suggested what there was to -be for dinner, if the ladies pleased; and the ladies generally did -please, though Miss Hofland, to show her independence, would make an -alteration now and then. - -“It’s cheerful to hear the clocks when one can’t sleep,” said Mrs. -Mills, as if it were possible that she could have heard Rhoda’s -question. “And in this quiet place there is nothing else to hear, unless -one was to believe the stories of the ghosts about the place, and -there’s not much sense in them.” - -“I beg you won’t speak of anything of the kind before Miss Rhoda!” cried -the governess, sharply. “And you, Hetty, you’re trembling, you silly -child!” - -“N--no, Miss Hofland,” Hetty said; but her head was racked with pain, -and she scarcely knew what she said. Was it a ghost she had seen, a -disembodied soul? She had not been so entirely without sleep as she -thought, but had dozed and woke again, always in a fever of alarm and -misery, recalling to herself the long muffled figure, the slow, soft, -noiseless movements, the winding out and in of the flower beds where the -yellow and brown heads of the chrysanthemums drooped in the frost. It -seemed to stand before her now as Mrs. Mills stood--though very unlike -Mrs. Mills--a long thin figure, wrapped from head to foot in some -clinging garment. - -“If I speak it is in a joke,” said Mrs. Mills; “you don’t think I -believe in anything of the sort?” - -“I don’t admire that kind of joking,” Miss Hofland said. “Rhoda, come, -if you have finished your breakfast it is quite time to begin lessons. I -think we are a little late to-day.” - -Hetty followed, heavy-eyed and heavy-hearted, her mind oppressed with -the secret, which was a burden almost beyond her power of supporting. -Should she tell Miss Hofland? she kept asking herself. Should she ask -Mrs. Mills? And oh! what was it? it was no thief watching the house, of -that Hetty was sure. The fantastic movements of the figure among those -flower-beds came up before her eyes a hundred times, and made her almost -cry out with terror. She remembered the very poise of the figure, light, -with a little swing in the step. Could that be a ghost that moved in -such a human way, not gliding, not mystical, as ghosts are described as -being? Her head turned round as again and again the moonlight scene rose -before her. It seemed impossible to get it out of her eyes. She closed -them, to rest her hot strained eyeballs, and lo, there it was before her -in those wonderful contrasts of black and white, so clear, so clear! the -broad stretch of wistful silvery mist and distance behind, the black -solid line of the moving object, the tall flowers drooping their heads, -the trees gathering like spectators on every side. The hum of the voices -near her was to Hetty’s ears like a monotonous murmur without meaning. -When it came to her turn to read or answer a question, she raised a -white face without intelligence to the governess. “My dear, you have not -been attending,” Miss Hofland cried, astonished; but this by degrees -changed into, “My dear, you must be ill. Is your head bad? have you -caught cold? What is the matter?” Miss Hofland was very philosophical on -her own account, but to the young people under her charge she was kind, -and it was understood in her code of laws that a headache was always to -be respected, being in some sort a girl’s only refuge in heartache and -all other ills. - -“I feel dreadfully stupid,” said Hetty, not knowing how to excuse -herself. - -“It is your head that is bad. You will be better if you will go and lie -down,” said Miss Hofland; but this was a remedy that made Hetty shiver. -Lie down with her face towards the window from which she had seen that -sight, or, worse still, turning her back to it, so that the figure -might be performing any kind of wild gyration behind her! This made the -throbbing in her head and the fluttering at her heart worse than ever. - -“Oh no!” she cried, “I don’t want to lie down; let me stay here--oh! let -me stay with you. It is so much nicer to be with you.” - -“Then lie down on the sofa,” said the governess, “and try to go to -sleep. Poor little thing! how you are trembling, your nerves are all -wrong. That’s what it is to have a _nuit blanche_ when one is young.” - -“Did you hear anything, Hetty? did you see anything?” cried little Rhoda -in her ear, while Miss Hofland covered her up. Hetty, in the agony of -her unwonted secret, did not know how to make any reply. She had never -known what it was to have a secret before. To know something which she -kept to herself seemed wrong to Hetty. If there ever was any little -thing unknown to mamma, such as that project for the private paying of -the bills, it was breathed to Janey. Little secrets about Christmas -presents and suchlike--secrets so little, so innocent--were always -shared with somebody. To have this dark knowledge in her heart, and -nobody to tell it to, made Hetty’s heart sick. And Rhoda’s big eyes -appealing to her made everything more difficult. She had heard nothing, -not a sound, which made what she had seen still more weird and -unearthly. And what did the child mean, whispering as if she had a -secret too? - -Hetty, however, slumbered a little in the warm room, with the protecting -sense of society round her, and the hum of the voices in her ears. -Nothing could happen there to her that would not be known. If that thing -should really appear again, at least Miss Hofland would be there to see -it too. This soothed and brought the ease of rest to the feverish brain. - -But when night came again, and Hetty had to go to bed by herself in that -room, with the window as usual open to the sky, and the formal -flower-beds with the chrysanthemums all spread out in the moonlight, -and the consciousness that Miss Hofland had turned the key in her door, -and shut herself off from all possibility of appeal, Hetty’s sensations -of alarm were indescribable. She rushed to the window and drew the -curtains close that she might not see out; then, feeling still more -intolerable the thought that outside, in the whiteness of the moon, that -ghastly thing might be pacing, drew them back again in a panic, and -gazed out in a trance of speechless terror. But the white light fell -unbroken over the garden, and the long vista of the park opened before -her, a wistful vacancy stretching to the sky, without a living thing to -disturb the scene. Hetty stood clinging to the curtains, half hidden in -their folds, as if she were herself afraid to be seen, for a long time, -she did not know how long. But there was no movement or shadow upon the -undisturbed stillness, and ghostly, motionless, half-frozen calm -without. She stood there till she was chilled to the heart with cold; -her fire had gone out; her candles were nearly burnt to the socket, and -nature began to assert her rights. The stable clock shrilling all the -hours close at hand, and the village clock booming in a minute after -like a bass accompaniment, were half consoling, half alarming. Twelve! -how long it took to strike! and was not this the hour “when churchyards -yawn and graves give up----” Hetty hung upon the curtains, half -unconscious, for a minute or two; if she had not grasped them so she -would have fallen, and probably fainted. But the support of the heavy, -thick folds, which sustained her slight little figure, kept her from -that climax. And after a time she crept to bed and slept soundly, and -woke wondering at herself; trying to laugh at herself; chiding herself -for all this excitement. Her night’s rest had restored her nerves. She -appeared at breakfast, if still a little tremulous, yet herself again, -and smiled as she met Miss Hofland’s sympathetic inquiries, and Mrs. -Mills’ keen look. Why did Mrs. Mills look at her with that gaze of -suspicion? and little Rhoda, with her big eyes, seizing the first -opportunity to whisper, “Did you hear anything?” The look and the -question raised again a little flutter in her spirits, but she felt -brave in the strength of her night’s sleep, and of the passage of time, -which has always a soothing effect: and began to forget. - -Another night passed, and she saw nothing, and then another day. The -girl felt more safe; life began to wear its usual aspect. It might be -one of the servants after all; some one, perhaps, who did not venture to -go into the garden during the day, and who had heard of the -chrysanthemums; or it might be the gardener, stealing out to cover some -of his more delicate plants. None of those common-sense explanations had -occurred to Hetty at first. They came upon her now in a crowd. Of course -she said to herself, How foolish not to have thought of it before! The -frosts were beginning to be harder every night; what more natural than -that the gardener should take every precaution against the severe -weather? In the reaction from her panic, Hetty became more cheerful, -more gay than ever. If suddenly her vision came before her eyes and -chilled her, she flung it away, saying to herself: how silly! Why was it -that she had not seen how easily the thing was to be accounted for -before? - -This continued for some time. She was not so courageous when she went -into her room at night. There she invariably passed half an hour or so -enveloped in the curtains, gazing out; but with less and less alarm, -sometimes even with a little bravado, opening her window, giving herself -the keen and thrilling sensations of the wintry night. And a long time -passed before she had any occasion for a renewal of her alarm. It was -close upon Christmas when the second incident occurred. Suddenly, in the -grey of a rainy night, as she took her accustomed stand, something -seemed to move outside, and brought her heart with a leap into her -throat. Something moved; that was all. She could distinguish nothing; -the grey of the night, the soft haze of the falling rain, filled up the -landscape. The opening of the park was but a pale blotch upon the -surrounding darkness. After the first moment of pain, Hetty chid -herself again. Yes, she said to herself, something moved. Of that there -was no doubt; the rain falling down straight through the windless air -moved, of course, keeping a sensation of flow and action in the -immovable atmosphere. But this did not still the beating of her heart. -She pressed close to the window, holding it with her hand, peering out -into the grey. To see anything was impossible through the veil of that -falling rain. It went on, not violently--softly, a gentle cold stream of -imperceptible drops, soaking everything, obliterating sound and sight. -Who could see, had they the sharpest eyes in the world, through that -mist of continuous dropping? who could hear anything, had they ears as -keen as those of a savage? And yet Hetty, with her heart beating so loud -that it filled all the world with commotion, both heard and saw and knew -that something--she could not tell what--something living, that had a -will and action of its own, was somewhere near her outside, disguised -and enveloped in the soft pouring of the rain. She said to herself, the -gardener, one of the servants, as she had done before; but her heart was -sick with terror. She could not satisfy herself with that argument; half -the night through she watched; and yet she could not say that she had -seen anything. No, nothing at all, nothing at all! but she felt in every -fibre, in every nerve, that someone had been there. - -This time she resolved on telling Miss Hofland. It was impossible to -live under the spell of this terror. She must, at least--she must--have -somebody to share it; and insensibly she began to hope that perhaps Miss -Hofland, being older, and having seen so much in her life, might be able -to suggest some explanation, and clear the mystery up. Hetty slept -little that night. Her resolution gave her a little steadiness, but it -did not restore her calm; and in the dawn of the winter morning she was -up before any one, unable to rest. When there was something like -daylight in the grey skies, a ghost of morning just making the garden -and its formal flower-beds visible, she stole again to her window; and -finally, encouraged by the hour, and the consciousness that, though -there was still so little light, it was day and not night that was -approaching, opened it softly and stole out. The rain had ceased, but -everything was sodden and wet, her foot sinking into the spongy grass, -which came close up to the window ledge. There was nothing there that -could conceal any lurking figure. If there had been anything, any -clandestine visitor, whoever it was must have crouched by the wall, -close, close to where she stood within. Hetty thought she saw some of -the moss upon the wall scraped away as by some one rubbing against it; -and her heart sprang up once more with the flutter of terror to think of -this possibility. Only the wall between her--so young, so frightened, -and helpless--and that presence, whether spirit or man, whatever it was. -It was all she could do to stand upon her trembling limbs and keep -upright, though it was now morning and no longer dark. And when suddenly -something appeared round the corner of - -[Illustration: “I FEAR I HAVE DISTURBED YOU” (_p. 243_).] - -the house, a dark figure making its way towards her, she could not -restrain a scream as she flew back to the shelter of her window. Quick -as her movements were, she was not quick enough, however, to elude this -presence; and Hetty’s fear gave place to a stupefied astonishment when -she recognised the doctor, Mr. Darrell, who touched her shoulder, and -called her by her name. - -“Let me speak to you a moment,” he said, breathlessly. “I fear I have -disturbed you--perhaps more than once.” - -“You!” was all that Hetty could say, panting with fright, relief, and -profound surprise above all. He was in his usual dress, looking somehow -as if he had not taken it off all night, and looked harassed and pale. - -“Yes,” he said. “I was afraid you had seen me, and might be frightened. -I have a patient with whom I have to be at all hours, both night and -day; who is not quite sane but quite harmless. Forgive me; and might I -ask you not to speak of it to frighten the house?” - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XVII. - -SHUTTING UP. - - -To say nothing of it, to frighten the house! Hetty had never encountered -in her own youthful person such a difficulty before. To keep the secret -of something which had happened, which now it was very clear to her was -not accidental--something perhaps that might be important, to keep the -secret from those whom it might concern! In a moment her little fiction -about the gardener disappeared, and she felt that she had never truly -believed it. Something of far greater meaning lay beneath. She -confronted it vaguely with frightened eyes; the conditions of her -coming, and of the life here, and of Miss Hofland’s wonder and -questioning, all flashing upon her in a moment. Everything went to -prove that there was a mystery involved, something connected with the -family that probably ought not to be concealed. She looked at Mr. -Darrell with eyes which woke from a sort of stupefaction of fear and -wonder into intelligence and acute anxiety. She did not speak, having -scarcely regained sufficient possession of herself to trust her voice, -but examined him with those awakened eyes. - -“There is nothing wrong,” he said, with a slight tremulousness. “I would -not deceive you. Whatever may be the rights of the matter, nothing could -be gained by disturbing the house.” - -“Oh, what is it?” cried Hetty, in spite of herself. - -He shook his head with a smile. “Nothing,” he said, “that can affect -you, nothing indeed. You have seen or heard me going to my patient?” - -“Oh, Mr. Darrell,” said Hetty, with the indignation of sincerity, “it -was not you.” - -He shrank a little from her look. “I think you are mistaken,” he said; -“how can you tell in the night who it is? I have to be about at all -hours. I go through the park, or even across the garden, as the shortest -way.” - -Hetty eyed him once more with the superiority of fact over fiction. She -looked at him as if she saw through him, he thought, and, what was -worse, undervalued him, and set him down as a deceiver. In reality Hetty -was far too much perplexed and disturbed in her mind to come to any such -decided conclusion. She was looking at him instinctively to try to make -him out. And in this look a great many things were communicated by the -one to the other which did not at all involve the immediate question. -Hetty saw a face which was full of anxiety, and perhaps of desire to -veil a certain secret, but which at the same time was open and true, the -countenance of a man in whom guile was not. The true recognise the true, -however different may be their mental altitude or position. She thought -he was deceiving her, and yet by instinct she believed in him. And he -saw, in the young face lifted to him with such troubled questioning, the -look of a judge before whose decision he trembled. If she should judge -him from the surface, as it was so natural she should--if she took the -fiction on his lips for the indication of his character, the young -doctor in a moment felt that the work in which he was engaged, and which -already his conscience disapproved, would cost him dear. - -“Miss Asquith,” he said, hurriedly, “I must not stop to explain. Will -you remember, whatever may happen, that I am always about? even when you -don’t see anything of me, I’m near. Don’t let yourself be frightened; -whatever happens, I am always near.” - -“It would be better to tell me what it is. Then I could not be -frightened,” said Hetty, with as much calm as she could muster. But -before he could reply, he no less than she started at the sound of a -step--one step and no more, at which she clutched his arm with terror -unspeakable, and he looked quickly round with a look of alarm in which -there was no counterfeit. There was but one step, which was a thing to -curdle the blood, as it seemed to Hetty, more than any succession of -footsteps--one single stealthy step and no more. - -“Who is there? Speak,” cried the young doctor, with a voice which was -not loud, but seemed to penetrate the intense morning stillness like a -knife. And then, while Hetty stood speechless, there suddenly appeared -round the corner of the house the paltry figure of Mrs. Mills the -housekeeper, in extremely simple morning apparel, with a scared look in -her face. - -“Oh, Mr. Darrell, is it you?” she cried in her turn, in a voice full of -relief. - -It would have been embarrassing for an older and more experienced young -woman than Hetty to find herself discovered by the housekeeper in close -colloquy with young Mr. Darrell, in the early morning before the house -was astir. But Hetty was too young for any such feeling. She was -frightened, but relieved beyond measure. It is not pleasant to think -that even the housekeeper stands and looks in at your window in the grey -of the morning before any one is awake. But still this seemed to Hetty, -somehow, more possible than if it had been the doctor making mysterious, -impossible journeys round the house. Her hand dropped from that clutch -upon his arm. She felt restored at once to the practicable world. - -“I am trying to persuade Miss Asquith,” he said, “that she heard nothing -worse than myself passing through the garden, and that she must not be -surprised if she hears me again.” - -The woman, who looked pale, as if she had been up all night, melted into -an uneasy smile. “No, no, she mustn’t be afraid. There are a many noises -about this house,” she said. - -“Nothing more than the doctor going his rounds, late or early,” said -Darrell; “you will believe Mrs. Mills? And now go back to your room, and -I hope you won’t let me disturb your rest again. Remember,” he said, -with emphasis, “I’m always about. I’m always near.” - -“You’ve got your window all open, miss,” said the housekeeper. “Bless -me! it should always be well fastened and the shutters shut. I must give -the housemaid a piece of my mind.” - -Hetty followed her in, unresisting, as she pushed into the privacy of -the room, which on ordinary occasions the girl was jealous of exposing -to vulgar eyes, with its little array of photographs and family -treasures. Mrs. Mills took no notice of these, but she quickly shut and -fastened the window. “It’s very early for you to be up. Don’t you know -it’s very awkward for the servants, Miss Asquith, when a young lady -takes to getting up at these unearthly hours?” - -“I did not mean to trouble anybody. I heard a step, and I opened the -window to see what it was.” - -“Dear me!” said the housekeeper; “I shouldn’t have done that. What a -daring thing for a young lady to do! Supposing it had been -housebreakers, and your window so nice and handy for them to step into -the house?” - -“Do you think it was housebreakers?” Hetty cried. - -“Bless you, my child, no, not in daylight. They’re not as bold as that. -But another time, Miss Asquith, take my advice, and don’t open your -window in that confiding way. You’re always a deal safer with everything -shut. And there are always sounds about an old house like this. For my -part, I never pay any attention. Have everything well shut and fastened, -and then you can’t take any harm, whoever may be about.” - -“I thought perhaps,” said Hetty, timidly, “there might be some -danger--that it might be right to call some one--that I ought to ring -the bell, or something.” - -“Bless me!” said the housekeeper again. “You would be as good as an -extra watchman for the family. But look here, my dear young lady, don’t -you take any trouble. What is the house to you? You’re only a stranger -in it. Shut up your window and lock your door, and nothing can harm you. -I’ll have it done myself to-night. As for the house, there are plenty -to see to that, and no danger of housebreakers here.” - -Hetty was very much agitated by these interviews. She found no -satisfaction in them. The doctor’s repeated assurance that he was always -near was little more consolatory than the housekeeper’s injunctions to -shut herself up, and take no concern for the house. Hetty could not -understand anything of the kind. To be shut up in shivering safety, a -poor little atom of terrified consciousness in the midst of unknown -dangers, indifferent to and shut off from everybody around, seemed to -her so unnatural, so horrible. She remembered now the chill she had felt -when she heard Miss Hofland lock her door. Was it possible to live in a -house like this--each shut in, safe under lock and key, and no one -taking any interest in the panic or trouble which might be in the next -room? - -This thought was more strange to Hetty than even the thought of danger. -Danger! She had known what it was to feel a thrill of terror when she -woke in the night and heard some of those sounds which are always -alarming to a watcher: the vague noises of the darkness, sounds -exaggerated by the surrounding silence into something inexplainable, -mysterious creaks and cracklings. But then there was the sense of -habitation in the house, the certainty of father and mother always ready -to be appealed to, and at whose appearance all dangers were disarmed. At -Horton the sensation was very different. The house felt empty, cold, -with a mysterious chill in it, and a few trembling individuals dotted -along the side of the house, each shut up in her separate room. This was -more dreadful to Hetty than words could say. She was very silent all -day, shivering from time to time, extremely pale, as unlike the -bright-faced girl she had been a little while before as it is possible -to conceive. And they were all very kind. Miss Hofland flew to her -favourite idea of a headache and to her favourite expedient of lying on -the sofa, which was her panacea for all troubles. “I’ll get you a book, -my dear,” she said. “I have a very nice book, which I brought with me. -I am sure you have never read it; and now you can lie quite comfortably, -and not be disturbed by anything. Going to bed may be better when you -have a headache; some people think so: but it _is_ giving in so when you -go to bed, and then it’s lonely, and unless you can sleep, I don’t see -the advantage. You are just as well on the sofa, and more cheerful. I am -afraid Horton is not going to agree with you: and that would be such a -bore when we have just got so nicely settled down.” - -“I don’t wonder it does not agree with her,” said the housekeeper, “a -young lady that sleeps with her window open in this weather.” - -“Oh, goodness!” cried Miss Hofland. “A window opening on the park in any -weather! You must not do it, my dear. Why, _anything_ might run in--a -rabbit or a squirrel out of the woods, or one of the sheep that’s -grazing about, or even a cow. Fancy being woke in the middle of the -night by a cow! I can’t conceive what I should do--shriek till I -brought the house down. Fancy a cow’s breath suddenly puffed out upon -you, and a great ‘Mo--oo’ in the middle of the night!” - -“A cow’s an innocent thing,” said Mrs. Mills. The housekeeper kept -appearing all day, coming in with every meal, keeping an eye upon Hetty. -The girl felt this confusedly, though she could not think why it was. - -“Oh yes! it is an innocent thing and a nice thing in its proper place. -But in your bedroom at the dead of night! My dear, you must consider, if -not for your own sake, yet for the sake of other people. I make it a -rule to shut up my windows, even in summer. When you get used to living -in strange houses that are nothing to you, where you are only for a -time, you have to be particular. Why, anybody might come in--a tramp -that had got into the park.” - -“Don’t frighten the young ladies, Miss Hofland, please. There’s no such -thing possible. A tramp could no more get in here than at Windsor -Castle. It would be as much as their places were worth to the -lodge-keepers. And it’s a thing that never happened. No, it’s an old -house, and if any one says there are noises about, that can’t be quite -accounted for, well, I’ll not go against them: but as for tramps!” Mrs. -Mills cried, with a laugh. The derision in her tone seemed to Hetty to -be addressed to herself. What a little fool you are! but at least keep -it to yourself, that look seemed to say. - -And at night, when they all went to bed, both Miss Hofland and the -housekeeper went with Hetty to her room. The latter had given -instructions to the housemaid, and everything was fastened in Hetty’s -room, the shutters closed, the curtains drawn, a dreadful sense of being -shut up and cut off from everything breathing in the motionless air. -Hetty gasped, with a feeling that she could not get breath. But the room -was large and lofty, and not without air, so that the sensation was -imaginative rather than real. There was a bright fire blazing, which -made everything look cheerful. “This is what I call comfortable,” Miss -Hofland said. “Don’t you think so too, my dear? Those nice soft curtains -keep out every bit of draught. I must say they understand comfort in -this house. Mine are so thick, if a gale is blowing, I never feel it in -the least--and these are nearly as good. Surely you like that better -than an open window at this time of the year?” - -“Some people have a fad about open windows, and say you should have them -all the year through. Some people have a fad about curtains. I don’t -blame Miss Asquith, for she’s very young: but I think when a young lady -is living with other people she should go by the ways of the house.” - -“I don’t see that at all,” said Miss Hofland. “If you’ve any sort of -rights, you’ve a right to arrange your own room as you choose, and I -have never done otherwise. A lady that has to live in other people’s -houses has many things to put up with, but I never should give in to -that. All the same, my dear, when you sleep on the ground-floor you -can’t be too particular. Now lock the door after me, and you will be as -snug and as safe as if you were in a box. Good-night, dear, and sleep -well, and don’t mind if you should hear the house tumbling down. It’s no -concern of ours.” - -With this Miss Hofland crossed the little passage to her own door, and -waving her hand, shut and locked it, as Hetty could very well hear. The -housekeeper retired by the other, repeating Miss Hofland’s advice. “Just -turn the key when I’m gone, and then you’ll be sure nothing can happen -to frighten you. And there’s really nothing to frighten any one, only -noises such as you hear in every old house.” - -Hetty, with a beating heart, did as she was told; and then the -oppression of this shut-in solitude and silence came round her like a -shroud. The curtains seemed to close round with an ominous envelopment. -The straight lines of the walls, with no windows to break them, -frightened her as if they were the sides of a box, as Miss Hofland had -said. The girl’s nerves were so strained that she burst into one of -those youthful tempests of tears which relieve the bosom. She had -nothing to cry for, nothing. Comfort, luxurious and elaborate, -surrounded her, and no harm was near that she knew of. The fire burned -cheerfully; everything was shut out that could frighten or trouble her. -For what did Hetty cry, or what had she to fear? - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -“LET ME GO HOME.” - - -When Hetty woke in the middle of the night, and found herself in -darkness, without a glimmer of light, curtains and shutters closing her -in, doors locked between her and all the rest of the world, a gloom -which could be felt weighing down her eyelids, the sensation of terror -which overwhelmed her was no doubt entirely unreasonable. Miss Hofland -next door felt these precautions essential to her rest. But little Hetty -lay not daring to breathe, bound in a speechless and horrible panic -which no words could express. Nothing that she could have seen or heard -would have equalled the horror of seeing nothing, of lying there a -hopeless prisoner of the darkness, the silence throbbing round her, the -gloom pressing upon her like a tangible weight. How she had woke, -whether by the reverberation of some cry, or by some stirring in the -night, she could not tell. She thought it was both. She thought that -some shriek penetrating the too great and tingling profundity of -silence, and some movement in the intense, insupportable gloom, had -broken the uneasy sleep into which she had fallen against her will while -the firelight lasted, with its friendly blaze and little crackling. -These had saved her from the horror of the shut-up place. But now the -fire had died out, there was no glimpse or glimmer anywhere; all was -dark, dark, horrible, a blackness growing upon her, getting into her -very soul. Something of the effect of a nightmare was in that horrible -gloom. It seemed to hold her so that she could not move, and scarcely -could breathe. There seemed no air, but only darkness, darkness within -and around. Her eyes were useless to her, as if she had none; and her -ears, which seemed strained and worn with the effort, were the only -sentinels she had to warn her of any approaching evil, and tingled and -throbbed, either they or that black vacancy which they watched. All this -was nothing, as the reader knows, it was only a child’s fantastic -rendering of the most common-place fact, but to Hetty it was a fever, a -nightmare, everything that was most appalling. She started up at last, -defying the still greater horror of meeting or running against some -awful presence hidden in the gloom, and groped about the dreadful place -till she found the curtains, restraining all the time with the most -frantic effort a scream which was in her throat, which only the -strongest resolution kept from bursting forth. When at last she had -succeeded in opening everything, and discerned with transport a pale -gleam of sky, with black tree-tops tossing about it, Hetty dropped upon -the floor beside the window, almost fainting with exhaustion and relief. -At last here was a little light, though it was only the glimmer of -midnight. It was the sky; there was one faint star in it, shining by the -edge of a cloud. She was not shut up in a box of blackness and darkness -and separated from all the world. - -Feverish thoughts flew through Hetty’s brain in this half-swoon. She -said to herself, Would death be like that?--all black, nothing to be -heard or seen, a horrible blank, in which nothing but throbbing terror -and dread consciousness were. She tried to tell herself that death was -nothing at all, only a passage from earth to heaven, but had not enough -command of her faculties to follow that or any other argument, but only -to feel, with a wild relief, that she was not dead, for here was the sky -still palely glimmering, light in it, not blackness, as the shut-up room -had been. She supposed afterwards that she had fallen asleep there, half -wrapped in the curtain near that blessed window which had brought her -back to life; for when she came to herself much later, in the first -profound chills of dawn, she found herself half lying, half sitting, in -the elastic fold of the heavy curtain, aching with cold and exposure, -and for the moment deeply wondering how she came there, at the foot of -the tall window which was now full of the grey lightness of the coming -day. - -Hetty was paler than ever, nervous, and trembling, next day. She had -caught a chill, everybody said; and again Miss Hofland prescribed the -sofa, the novel, hot cups of tea, and other gratifications; the lessons -were done by her side to save her trouble, and little Rhoda showed her a -great deal of silent sympathy, stealing to her side in the intervals of -those simple studies, putting an arm round her neck as she stood by the -sofa, even bestowing a silent kiss by way of consolation. The girl -recovered her courage during the day, especially as the sun shone, and -everything looked brighter. But as evening drew near, Hetty paled and -shivered once more. “A cold is always worse in the evening,” said Miss -Hofland, and recommended bed earlier than usual, and a hot drink. Bed -was the thing of all others that Hetty feared. She lay on the sofa by -the comfortable fire in a state of confused and self-reproachful misery, -such as only the very young are capable of feeling. Words seemed on her -very lips which she with difficulty kept from becoming audible. “Oh, let -me go home to mamma! oh, let me go home! let me go home!” She thought if -she once began saying it, she would have to go on and on and never could -stop herself. “Oh, let me go home!” She said it over and over and over -within herself, but was checked continually by the thought that if she -said it aloud, if she could have her wish, there would be an end of all -that had been dreamed of, of the bills that might be paid, and the -sealskin for mamma. Hetty bought the sealskin dear. It was that above -all that kept her dumb, that kept down that cry, “Oh, let me go to -mamma!” But then mamma would go cold in her thin cloak all next winter, -because Hetty could not command herself. It came to a compromise at last -in a fit of nervous sobbing, which she could not restrain when, after -Rhoda had been sent away, Miss Hofland again proposed going to bed. - -“My dear! what is the matter? Do you feel ill? Have you a sore throat? -I do hope you are not going to be hysterical. My dear child, do get the -better of that crying. Tell me frankly what’s the matter. If it’s -anything I can help you in, I will do it; but, for goodness’ sake, don’t -sob like that. What is it you want, my dear?” - -“Oh, Miss Hofland, I don’t know. I suppose it’s only mamma. I feel as if -I couldn’t do without mamma.” - -“Oh, you poor child! Well, I have heard a great many girls say that, my -dear. It’s common when you’re beginning your life. I never had any -mother, and I used to envy them with their crying. I’d have given a -great deal to have had anything to cry for. But every one has to be -reasonable in the end, and you have a great deal of sense, my dear. You -wouldn’t have been sent away unless they had thought it was best for -you. Now isn’t that true? You must just make up your mind to it, and put -up with it, till the time comes; and then all will be right, and you’ll -get back.” - -“Yes, I know; I can’t help saying it, Miss Hofland, but I don’t really -want it. I want to--stay out my time, and--and get my--money,” Hetty -said, keeping down her sobs. - -“Yes, that is the right way to look at it,” said the governess. She -understood well enough, having seen it so often, the little sudden -access of home-sickness, the heroic childish resolution to bear up to -the end and get the money, which so often means far more than money to -the young creature who earns it. Miss Hofland patted Hetty’s shoulder, -and soothed her with genuine feeling; and then she fell into the tone of -one far older than Hetty, and which she truly called governessy. -“Besides, my dear,” she said, “you must recollect that if you are to be -from home at all, you couldn’t be in a more comfortable house. It’s a -little queer, and I can’t help thinking that some day or other something -will be found out to account for it: but they treat us very well; that -can’t be denied. In some places they don’t allow you a fire in your -room, and the schoolroom dinners are like nursery meals, only not so -plentiful. It is a great addition to all the other things you have to -put up with when that’s the case. But here everything is very -comfortable. Your mother would be quite pleased if she saw how -everything is arranged for us here.” - -Hetty’s sobs died away under the influence of this speech--whether it -was the good sense in it, or that the mode of consolation adopted was so -entirely unfitted to the trouble, a thing which sometimes has quite a -good effect. - -“And then, you know,” said Miss Hofland, “there’s the satisfaction of -knowing that whatever there may be that is strange and out of the way, -it doesn’t concern us. They say that other people’s misfortunes make you -enjoy your own comforts the more. I wouldn’t go quite so far as that: -but it is a great gratification to reflect, when you are in a house -where there is evidently a skeleton somewhere or other, that it is no -business of yours. There’s no telling the comfort there is in that.’ - -“But, Miss Hofland,” said Hetty, “do you think that just to lock your -door, and never to mind whatever may happen to the house, as Mrs. Mills -says----” - -“Is that what she says?” said the governess, quickly. “Oh, you may be -sure that’s not her way; she would be at the bottom of it. I’m -confident, whatever it was, they couldn’t conceal anything from her! But -she’s got a good deal in her, that woman, though I don’t like her, my -dear. I shouldn’t say but it would be the wisest thing, on the whole. -For what could you do? You can’t clear up their mysteries or put things -straight, so why should you give yourself any trouble? If you thought -there were signs of fire, indeed, why then of course you should give the -alarm at once; for we all should suffer from that, we poor ladies who -have nothing to do with it, and the servants and all. Yes, I should -always give the alarm, whatever it cost you, in case of a fire; but for -other things I am not sure that she did not give you the very best -advice. A man, if he heard a noise, would have to get up and see what -it was; but a lady may always lock her door. I do it invariably wherever -I am, my dear. In the first place, it’s safer, for you never know who -might come blundering into your room, as I told you this morning; and -then it frees you from a great deal of responsibility. As a rule, at the -outset of your career, I should say that Mrs. Mills gave you very good -advice.” - -Hetty’s attention failed while Miss Hofland ran on. She lost reckoning -of the motives presented to her, the rule of conduct which her companion -would have been the first to call governessy. Another subject was -foremost in Hetty’s thought--her own room, into which she was about to -be taken as into a prison, where all would be black again, as before, -and the doors locked, everybody’s door locked, so that if any stronger -horror should seize her, there was nowhere she could fly to, no one to -whom she could escape and be safe. She was glad the governess should -talk, in order to put off that evil hour as long as possible. Miss -Hofland sat over the fire, quietly flowing forth in that philosophy of -the dependent, how to keep safest in a sort of camp by yourself in the -midst of an ungenial, if not unfriendly, world, how to avoid -responsibility and secure calm, however those around you might be -agitated. This was the code of things expedient which had been fixed in -her mind by years of experience. The girl listened very vaguely at -first, and then went off altogether into her own individual alarms. Her -pretty, comfortable room, with its pleasant fire, that luxury which was -not always allowed, had once more become a dark prison-house to Hetty. -How was she to go through such another night? - -There was a glimmer of comfort in the fact that Miss Hofland accompanied -her there, to see that her hot footbath was ready, and her hot drink. -“You must just jump into bed and cover yourself up warm, and never budge -till morning; and you’ll see your cold will be ever so much better,” she -said, tapping Hetty upon the cheek affectionately. “Now, my clear, don’t -be a little goose.” And then Hetty, with anguish which she could -scarcely contain, heard her go into her room and turn the key. “It -frees you from a great deal of responsibility,” she had said. And how -was she to know the miserable panic that was in the poor little girl’s -heart, left thus alone with her consciousness of wanderers outside and -mysteries within, and the sense of darkness and imprisonment, and no one -within call, whatever might happen? Hetty’s first wild idea was that it -would be better to sit up all night, and thus cheat the black gloom and -silence that lay in wait for her. But she was very obedient and quite -unused to act for herself; and there seemed to her something guilty, -something dreadful, in thus disregarding all the usages of life. She sat -down by her fire and read for as long a time as she could keep her -attention to her novel, and then, trembling to find it was midnight, she -stole to bed at last. Happily, she was so worn out that she slept -immediately, as if there had been no panics or mysteries in the world, -or as if her mother’s room--that shelter from all harm--had been open to -her next door. - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XIX. - -IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. - - -“Oh no! my dear young lady, no no; you must not be so easily -discouraged. Our little friend is very fond of you, and everybody likes -you. Come! you must try and put up with us a little longer. You must get -back your pretty colour and throw off this nasty little fever. The will -has a great deal to do with it, hasn’t it, Darrell? Come, Miss Hester! -You must not make your mamma think we have been unkind to you; that -would never do,” the kind old clergyman said. - -“That is what I am always telling her,” said Miss Hofland. “She is too -old, you know, to cry after her mother; and I tell her I used to envy -the girls that had something to cry for, for I never had any mother. I -might have cried my eyes out, and it wouldn’t have done me any good.” - -“Dear, dear!” said the old Rector, looking at the governess with a -mixture of wonder and alarm, a momentary tribute to her cleverness in -getting into the world by some unknown way; and then he returned to -Hetty, patting her affectionately upon the shoulder. “She’s not too old -for anything,” he said soothingly. “She’s too young for anything, and -never was away from her dear mother before: I feel sure she never knew -what it was----” - -“My dear! before the Rector and Mr. Darrell!” cried Miss Hofland. “You -ought to have a little proper pride.” - -For Hetty, hearing all these allusions to her mother and the talk that -went on over her, and being very weak and in a paroxysm of excited -feeling, had given way to a tempest of tears. - -“Let her cry,” said the kind old Rector, still going on patting her -with an almost mesmeric touch. “It must get vent, you know, and better -here than when she is alone. Just leave her to me a little, and she will -come round. You know, my dear young lady, if it should fall to your lot -in this world to get your own living, as many a nice, good girl has to -do, there are always difficulties to be got over at first. It’s not like -home. Though you put ever so good a face upon it, it’s not like home. -When you get used to it, you take the bitter with the sweet. But I have -often seen at the beginning that there was a little crisis, and it was -touch and go whether the poor little young heart could face the lot or -not.” - -“Oh yes,” cried Hetty convulsively; “it is not that; it’s only that I’m -feeling--ill; it is not that I am--silly: indeed, indeed!” the poor -child cried, struggling to speak steadily. - -“It is only this, that she is feverish, and her nerves have received a -shock,” said the young doctor. “Now that the days are brightening, and -she can get out in the open air----” - -The little old clergyman nodded his head and went on, “I understand all -that. But all the same there’s this little crisis which has to be got -over. I daresay, my dear, that Miss Hofland had it too, though she tells -us that she never had what most people have. I was once a tutor in my -young days, and I felt it, though I was a man. There are particular -qualities that are wanted for this dependent sort of life. We are all -more or less dependents here,” he said, looking round benevolently upon -the group about him. The speech was very well meant, but it was not very -well received: the young doctor made a hasty step apart, as if to -separate himself from the others, while Miss Hofland cried, “Oh, Mr. -Rector!” with suppressed indignation, “I do not consider myself a -dependent. I have accepted a position for a year, and so long as I do -the duties I’ve undertaken, I hope I’m as independent as any one. I -don’t mix myself up with the family at all,” Miss Hofland said. - -“Well, my dear young lady,” said the old clergyman, “I am, if nobody -else is: for though I am called the Rector by most people, and though I -have been here for a great number of years, I am only here, after all, -as _locum tenens_, which is a name you will no doubt have heard, as a -clergyman’s daughter; that means, you know, that I am here enjoying all -my little comforts at the will and pleasure of somebody else. He might -send me away to-morrow, or at least in three months’ time: or he might -die. He has been expected to die a great many times. I think sometimes -he never will. He’s an old, old fellow, much older that I am, and I, -though I am an old man, am quite dependent upon him, so, you see, I know -what I am talking about.” - -“Oh, Mr. Rector, if that is what you mean!” murmured Miss Hofland, -abashed. - -“Papa was the same once,” said Hetty, roused out of her self-occupation. -“We had a delightful house and a great, beautiful garden. But then the -old gentleman died, and we had to give it up.” - -“When my old gentleman dies, I shall have to give it up too; but I hope -he will outlive me. When an old man like that gets up among the -eighties, he may just as well live for ever: and I’m sure I hope he -will. So, you see, I have a long experience of being dependent; and I -should like to give you the help of my experience, you who are at the -other end. But I hope you will not have to live this kind of life.” - -“You needn’t feel any dependence unless you please,” said Miss Hofland. -“I would not set her against it, Mr. Rector, if she should have to -follow it, for a girl in most cases cannot choose for herself.” - -“I don’t mean to set her against it,” said the old clergyman; but they -were both interrupted by Hetty, to whom this opening of a new interest -was invaluable. - -“If this old gentleman is so old,” she said, “I wonder what his name is? -I wonder if perhaps he is the old Rector, Uncle Hugh, that mamma used to -tell us about?” - -The little group round Hetty was thunder-struck by this remark. Miss -Hofland hastily took up the eau-de-cologne, with a glance of alarm; and -the doctor lifted his head sharply and fixed his eyes upon her, as if -with a sudden gleam of hope. - -“Uncle Hugh!” cried the old clergyman. “My dear Miss Hester--I--this is -very surprising. He is Mr. Hugh Prescott, certainly, if you happen to -mean that.” - -“Oh,” cried Hetty, with awakened interest, “then it is Uncle Hugh! Mamma -has not heard of any of them for such a long time. She says it is so -wrong not to keep up writing, but there are so many of us, and she has -so much to do. Then Uncle Hugh is still alive! I will write directly and -tell her. She will be so pleased to know.” - -“Then your mother is----? To be sure!” cried the old clergyman. -“Asquith! I ought to have remembered. It is not so common a name but -that I might have remembered. Your father was once the curate here.” He -looked round upon his companions with a strange look, as if admitting -some new possibility from which unknown combinations might arise. “Why, -she’s a relation of the family,” he said. - -The housekeeper had come into the room while this conversation was going -on. She was always coming and going; and it was a great grievance with -Miss Hofland that she had begun constantly to open the door without -knocking, which was an assertion of equality on the housekeeper’s part -which the governess could not bear. She came forward now with a cup of -chicken-broth for Hetty, and in a moment became somehow the central -figure in the group. “Of the old family,” she said firmly, “and that is -what I have always thought. I thought from the beginning that there was -more than met the eye in that young lady being here.” - -The doctor stepped forward quickly, giving the woman a hasty, warning -look. “I wish I had known before,” he said. “It might have made things -easier.” And then he stopped, both in words and action, as if suddenly -perceiving either that he had said too much, or that his confusion had -betrayed him into something which ought not to have been said at all. -“To be sure, I don’t see that it makes much difference,” he said between -his teeth. - -“I think,” said the housekeeper, somewhat severely, “that if you will -reflect a moment, you will see that it makes no difference at all.” - -Miss Hofland, who was entirely in the dark, looked from one to another -with bewilderment. “Do you mean that Hetty is a relation of little -Rhoda?” she cried. - -“The Rector said, Miss Hofland, of the _old_ family,” said the -housekeeper pointedly; but neither of the gentlemen spoke. A curious -silence fell over the little party, as if no one, except Mrs. Mills, -whose views were peremptory, understood what was to be made of this new -idea, whether it were of great importance or of no importance at all. It -did not end in any additional demonstrations towards Hetty, to whom -indeed, in the little lingering illness, which, after all, was no more -than a feverish cold, aggravated by the tortures of the imagination -which she had been going through, and which Dr. Darrell only partly -guessed at, everybody had been as kind as it was possible to be. The -housekeeper herself, though so severe and secretly distrusted by all the -party, had been very kind to Hetty. If it had been the daughter of the -house, as Miss Hofland remarked, there could not have been more pains -taken with her. “Certainly they do treat us very well; there is nothing -whatever to be found fault with in that respect.” But no doubt Miss -Hofland herself looked upon the girl with a different eye. A relation of -the old family! The governess at least entertained from the beginning -the conviction, formed at once on her entry on her duties, that the old -family was very much superior to the new. - -As for Hetty herself, this little discovery did her more good than the -chicken-broth. It raised her failing spirit; it gave the pleasant -impulse of a new event. It was indeed, when she came to think of it, no -event at all, for though it had not seemed necessary to speak of it to -the servants and dependents of the new family, or to the little heiress -who was all she was acquainted with of the new family, Hetty herself had -been aware from the first that the house in which she was living was the -house of her ancestors, and that probably, as she thought, she had far -more to do with it, and certainly with the old pictures, than Rhoda had, -to whom everything would some day belong. There were no old servants in -the establishment who could remember her mother, no sign of any one -recollecting that such an unusual name as that of Asquith had once been -known at Horton. But now that the discovery had come about in this -natural way, it pleased Hetty. She had not written much to her mother -since she had been ill; but now, in the pleasant excitement of her -discovery, it was the first thing she thought of. As soon as the -visitors went away, she got up from her sofa of her own accord, -forgetting her dizziness and weakness, and began to write a little. -“Such a discovery has been made,” she wrote. “Uncle Hugh is alive still, -he is living abroad for his health, and the Rector is only _locum -tenens_, as papa was at Retford. He hopes Uncle Hugh may live for ever, -but that is not very likely, is it? My cold is a great deal better. I -think hearing this has driven it away; not that it makes much -difference, but still it makes one feel one’s self more at home, and as -if the house really did belong to us once.” After she had written this -cheerful letter, Hetty spent the most cheerful evening she had known for -a long time. Her fever seemed to have flown; her hands were moist; a -little soft pink colour came back to the cheeks which had alternated -between red and white. The sense of being better is in itself the best -of medicines. It went on raising her courage, strengthening her nerves, -making her altogether like herself. She went to sleep tranquilly, -without any alarm or excitement, with the shutters folded back a little, -the curtains drawn back, and one line of the light she loved, one little -span of sky, looking in upon her, so that she could see it where she -lay. It was a moonlight night, very soft, the temperature having risen, -and everything, as Miss Hofland said, “turning for the best.” - -It might be the middle of the night, veering towards the morning, when -that calm was disturbed. The moon had gone down, and it was still long -before dawn: the darkness intense, the softness of the evening lost in -the dead chill and depth of night, and, so far as any one was aware, the -great house of Horton all silent, filled with sleep and quiet--when -suddenly a wild and terrible shriek pealed through the stillness, a cry -that might have waked the dead, a cry of terror past reason, almost past -humanity, shrill and awful; it was followed by two others in swift -succession, cutting the silence like stabs of a weapon. It takes much to -wake a house so wrapped in quiet, in the midst of its night’s sleep; -but there was an instantaneous awakening in one quarter of the house, -which helped to rouse the rest; and when Miss Hofland, too much startled -by the keen ring of that shriek, almost at her very door, to think of -her own philosophy of precaution, hurried out into the passage in -consternation, her hair hanging over her shoulders, her naked feet -thrust into slippers, she met with a second shock almost as great as the -first, the housekeeper in her usual trim dress hurrying towards Hetty’s -door with a candle in her hand. This sight transfixed the dishevelled -maids, who, taking courage from their numbers, were rushing from all -sides crying, “What is it? Who is it?” with shrieks almost as noisy, -though so wonderfully different in intensity, from that which had -awakened the house. The governess was aware of the second bewilderment, -though she did not pause to think what it was. A blast of cold air came -in their faces, as they burst into Hetty’s room, from the window, one -side of which stood open, like a door, into the profoundest midnight -darkness. On the bed lay Hetty, or her ghost--a white face with staring -eyes, with the bedclothes drawn up tightly as if with an effort to pull -them over her face in her two clenched and rigid hands. Her eyes stared -wide open, but there was no meaning in them; the mouth still seemed to -quiver with that shriek, but was capable of no utterance. The horror of -some sight unspeakable seemed to linger in the awful lines about the -staring eyes, and in the wild hollows of the marble cheeks--marble -white, and with the rigidity of marble too. A murmur of horror came from -the women, cowed at the sight, except Mrs. Mills, who held up her -candle, throwing a strange light upon the paralysed face. The candle -trembled in her hand, but she uttered no word. It was thought afterwards -that this was what she had expected to see. - -And presently, running in hot haste, with every mark of agitation, pale, -with the perspiration pouring down his face, as if he had been engaged -in some mortal struggle, the young doctor in his ordinary dress came -down the corridor and entered Hetty’s room. He had the tail of his coat -half torn off at one side, the governess remarked, as, remembering her -own undressed condition, she took refuge behind the curtain. The young -man flung himself down on his knees by the bedside, calling out to the -housekeeper to hold her candle low, and loosening or trying to loosen -the rigid hands. “Is she dead, Doctor? Is she dead?” Mrs. Mills said in -a low voice of horror. She trembled in every limb, but she was not -surprised. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XX. - -A MIDNIGHT VISITOR. - - -This was what had happened to Hetty. - -In the middle of the night she had woke up suddenly as on that occasion -when she had come to life out of her dreams, and felt the intolerable -darkness go chill to her very soul. What it was that awakened her, -whether sound or sensation, the rush of the cold night air, or only some -consciousness of trouble and horror, she never could tell. She woke, but -not to darkness this time. Her eyes went to the light instinctively--to -the faint long opening of the window, which though all moonlight was -gone still marked itself upon the darkness around. She woke with a gasp -and suppressed cry. Her first sensation was the freshness of the air, -which showed that her window was open, and then that something moved in -that lighter space through which the wind blew. A terror, to which all -her previous fright seemed only preliminary, a horror of anticipation -and certainty, froze her very soul. Whatever it was, it had come, it had -her at last. She lay paralyzed, not able to move; her eyes, the only -capable things in her, straining into that dimness, a little lighter -than the darkness, where something unformed and horrible moved: moved! -that could be no delusion. She saw it with all the clearness of her -young, keen faculties, strung into the most dreadful acuteness of -perception--not what it was, but that it moved, now blocking the faint -grey, wavering in it, moving out of it, in, into the darkness of her -room, near her, close to her. Hetty lay motionless, in a trance of -unspeakable terror. What it was she could not say. It would have been -less horrible had she been able to see it. It was something that moved, -that was all. And then there followed faint, stealthy sounds as if of -contact with the furniture, like some one groping in the dark: and -suddenly that dreadful something moved close to her, between her and the -window, touching the line of her bed. It wavered, seemed to pass, then -turned back. The miserable child did not breathe, kept still with one -last effort, turned to stone by delirious fear. But something, the -subtle consciousness that breathes from every living creature, betrayed -her in the portentous gloom. Suddenly she felt something; a hand--was it -a hand?--passed over her face; and then the thing, which was not -distinct enough to be called a shadow, dropped by her bedside, and drew -close--close with the breath of another human creature, upon her. “My -child, my little darling, my little darling! I’ve found you, I’ve found -you at last!” The breath, the voice, the touch of the cold hand, turned -Hetty’s brain. And then it was that those shrieks arose, the -indescribable, toneless, sharp discords, the cry of mortal terror passed -into delirium; and she knew no more. - -“She is not dead,” said Mr. Darrell, examining with the candle the -horrible, fixed, staring eyes that saw nothing, that were unconscious of -his examination and undazzled by the light. “She is not dead. I am not -sure that she isn’t worse than dead.” - -“How did it happen?” said the housekeeper, in quick, low tones. - -“How can I tell you?--negligence! Get hot water, hot irons--anything -that is handiest. We must bring back the circulation, if that is -possible. Oh, thank you!” The young doctor threw a vague glance at the -white figure that suddenly appeared from behind the curtains, and got -into the bed beside Hetty’s marble form. He did not recognise who it -was. “That’s the best thing you can do; rub her feet, get the blood back -anyhow--anyhow. Get hot water, some of you, quick! Go on with that while -I go and get something for her.” - -The housekeeper laid her hand upon him as he was hurrying away. “Is all -safe?” she asked in her low, quick voice. “Are you sure all’s safe?” - -“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently; “what’s that in comparison with this?” - -“It’s our first business all the same,” said the woman. The young doctor -made a despairing movement of his hand towards the bed and hurried away. - -Miss Hofland had taken the girl’s inanimate figure into her arms. “I’m -almost too cold myself to be of any use to her,” she said, shivering at -the contact of the frozen limbs. Mrs. Mills put down her candle by the -bedside, where it threw a strange side light upon that tragic mask on -the pillow, with the open mouth and staring, awful eyes. Was it Hetty? -Was it possible it could be Hetty? All human identity as of feature, or -age, or character seemed to have gone out of the rigid face. The -housekeeper had her wits all about her--the self-command, Miss Hofland -instinctively reflected, of a person not taken by surprise. She gave a -few orders to the frightened women, who stood huddled together staring -at the foot of the bed, to shut the window, to light fires and prepare -hot water. Then she came back to the bedside, quite cool, professional, -unexcited. “If it’s cataleptic, all we can do won’t make much -difference,” she said calmly: and proceeded to open the clenched hands, -and disengage the coverings which were held as in a vice. “Ah!” said -Mrs. Mills, “she’s not so unconscious as she looks. She resisted me -then--only a little--but still she resisted. She’s coming round.” - -“How can it have happened?” Miss Hofland asked. She had got over her -first fright and horror, and to talk over a patient, however alarming -may be his or her state, is a temptation which nurses, when there are -two of them, can rarely resist. They were full of human kindness and -interest, and doing everything for her that could be done; but their -very interest and anxiety found relief in this discussion of the case. - -“Who can tell? She had left her window open again. She never could be -cured of that. Her mother must have some fad about open windows.” - -“Then you think some one must have come in?” - -“Some one? Who was there to come in? Something--perhaps one of the -cattle or something--meaning no harm; or perhaps she only imagined it. -Imagination is rather worse than fact.” - -“I said a cow,” said Miss Hofland thoughtfully. “It would be very -strange finding a cow by your bedside in the middle of the night: it -might be any sort of a monster: but, goodness! not to overwhelm a girl -like that! I think she’s not quite so cold. I think she’s not quite so -rigid. Hetty, wake up, my dear!” - -“Let her alone,” said the housekeeper. “She can’t hear you. If we get -her circulation back, that will be the best chance.” - -“But how could it have happened?” repeated Miss Hofland, “for I don’t -much believe in the cow. I can’t say I believe in the cow. Oh, how her -poor eyes stare! Do you believe she doesn’t see, though she stares so? -Hetty! oh, shake it off, darling, shake it off! If you will only make an -effort!” - -“What is the use?” said Mrs. Mills. “She can’t hear you. If she could, -it would be bad for her to be roused so. Young Darrell is very clever, -they say; he’ll do all that can be done.” - -“He looked as if he knew what it was.” - -“Oh, hush, here he is coming back! don’t let him hear you,” cried the -housekeeper, and then the colloquy came to an end. - -But the case was not so simple as Miss Hofland thought. No power of -making an effort remained in poor little Hetty. Her previous terrors, -which had been chiefly of the imagination, had undermined her strength. -She had no longer any force to resist this overwhelming horror when it -came. Whether it was her intelligence which had been killed by the blow, -whether she were only stunned temporarily, or if it was a moral -paralysis of the whole being which had laid her low, could not be -divined. She came round a little from that first trance. After a time -her eyes could close, her breathing began to be faintly audible, the -rigidity of her limbs relaxed. After a longer interval she came to -herself so much as to say “Thank you” faintly to the nurses, and to -swallow, though with difficulty, the nourishment they administered. -During this period there had been the greatest difficulty in satisfying -Hetty’s correspondents at home. She had already fallen out of her early -punctuality in respect to letter-writing, which smoothed matters a -little; but when day by day went by without producing any amelioration -in her state, and when letters began to rain upon the house at Horton -full of demands for explanation, and to know what was the matter, Mr. -Darrell one day announced to the housekeeper with some haste, and an -unnecessary sharpness of tone, “I’ll tell you what it is. I’m going to -send for her mother, and that without delay.” - -Mrs. Mills looked up in consternation. “Her mother!” she cried. “The -last woman in the world to come here!” - -“She may be the last woman or anything else you please, but she is the -only person that has anything to do here, and I am going to send for -her. Look there! do you think that can be allowed to go on?” the young -man cried, turning half round to where Hetty sat like a waxen image, -supported by cushions in a chair. She lay back as white as the pillow -upon which her head rested, her eyelids flickering now and then, her -thin hands crossed in her lap. She made no complaint, said scarcely -anything except that feeble “Thank you,” when anything was brought her, -or when some of her anxious attendants paused to smooth her cushions, or -ask if she wanted anything. It was a sight to melt the hardest heart. - -“And it is more than a week since it happened,” said young Darrell, “and -that is all we have been able to do. You are an excellent nurse, Mrs. -Mills; you have neglected nothing: and Miss Hofland does everything -that kindness can suggest: but you see yourself that we make no -progress. I can do nothing more; her mother may.” - -“Time will make it all right,” the housekeeper said. “Of course I am -very sorry--I would give anything that it had not happened. Of course -the poor little thing has got a dreadful shock. But she is very young, -and in time she will get all right.” - -“If you like to trust to time with such a delicate thing as a girl’s -life,” said the young doctor, “I don’t. We must do something. Either -that and try the effect of nature, or else I must have the best -authority from town to see her; and you know what questions a physician -would ask, and perhaps you know how we could answer him. I don’t.” - -“Mr. Darrell,” said the housekeeper, “you’re my superior. I have to take -my orders from you. All the same, I consider that our first business is -to look after what we were put here for. I cannot acknowledge that a -child frightened, even though she is frightened into fits, is any reason -for giving up.” - -“There are a hundred reasons for giving up,” cried the young man -passionately. “I would give up this moment if I could, if there was any -one to give up my charge to. It’s neither right nor necessary, what -we’re doing. I have never stopped regretting I undertook it, never -since----” - -“Say the truth, Mr. Darrell, never since--this young lady came here! -I’ve seen it from the first. She’s not much more than a child, but you -think more of her than of every one else in the house.” - -The young doctor blushed like a girl to the very roots of his hair. “I -have no intention of answering any such accusation,” he said. “It is -entirely uncalled for, and quite unjustifiable. I have done my duty to -the utmost, if such a charge could ever be any one’s duty. My doubts -have a very different foundation. But I don’t go so far as to sacrifice -life to my engagements, and therefore I’m going to telegraph to Mrs. -Asquith to beg her to come here at once, without an hour’s delay.” - -“Then I’ll telegraph to Mrs. Rotherham,” said the housekeeper. “Oh, -dear! she is so far away. How can you betray a poor lady that is so far -away? I’ll send for the lawyer. It was he that brought this girl here, -and he had better come and take her away. Yes, that’s it. Let’s make a -compromise, Doctor. Send her away. To go home, of course, is the best -thing for her. Change of air, and change of scene, and her own -folks--that’s far, far better. I’ll run the chance of whatever she may -say when she gets better. Let us send her away.” - -Mr. Darrell turned and looked again at the motionless figure in the -chair. His face softened into the deepest, tender pity. “If you think -what she was when she came here,” he said, “all full of life and spirit, -and to look at her now, like a withered flower! No. I can’t take the -responsibility of sending her away. Her mother, or a physician, one or -the other! I can’t have her life and her reason to answer for all alone. -I am going to telegraph to Mrs. Asquith, now.” - -The housekeeper stopped him, catching at his arm. “Do you know who Mrs. -Asquith is?” she said. - -“Mr. Tenby told me--a relation. Well, so much the better. I am sick of -my share in it,” cried the young man. They had been standing talking at -the window. Hetty had been moved to another room on the other side of -the house, where nothing could remind her of the terrible incident which -had changed her whole being, and which was lighted by a large recessed -window. He left the housekeeper standing there, and went up to the girl, -sitting motionless in her chair. “Is there anything you would like?” he -said. “Can I get you anything? Shall I move you nearer the window? Do -you think you would like to see any one? Shall I call Miss Hofland? Is -there any one whom you would like me to call?” There was a faint hope -in his mind that she would say “Mamma,” which she had cried so piteously -at first. But Hetty said nothing save “Thank you,” with the faintest -movement of her lips. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XXI. - -AN INNOCENT SUFFERER. - - -The house had never been a lively house, but it had turned into the -dreariest of habitations now. All those comforts which Miss Hofland had -felt to make up for so much did not compensate for the absence of Hetty, -or what was worse, for the presence of Hetty, spell-bound in that great -chair, and for the innocent questions of Rhoda, who asked and asked, -every new demand being but an echo of the questions which already were -thrilling through the governess’s heart. “But why?” Rhoda said. “What -made her like that? What has happened to her? Things can’t happen, can -they, without a cause? Why has Hetty turned like that? She was never -like that before. If you will not tell me I will ask Mr. Darrell; he is -the doctor, and he must know.” - -“She got some dreadful fright, my dear. Don’t speak to Mr. Darrell, for -I don’t think he knows; and if he does know, he would not tell a little -girl like you.” - -But this answer did not satisfy Rhoda. She caught Mr. Darrell, as it -happened, exactly at this moment when he was going out. “Oh, Mr. -Darrell, I want you to tell me what has made Hetty like that. What is -the matter with Hetty? Oh, yes, I have seen her. Do you think they could -shut her up and hide her from me? Mr. Darrell, what has happened to -Hetty? You are the doctor, and you must know.” - -“The doctor doesn’t know everything,” he said. - -“But very near everything,” said Rhoda. “She is very ill, I am sure. -Tell me what it is, and I won’t trouble you any more.” - -“I can’t tell what it is,” said the young doctor. “I wish I could, then -perhaps I might know how to make her better. I am going now to send for -some one who perhaps can do it. It is only perhaps, but I am going to -try.” - -“Another doctor?” asked Miss Hofland. “I can understand that you don’t -like the responsibility. I shouldn’t if I were in your place.” - -“Not another doctor, at present, but her mother,” Mr. Darrell said; and -he went off and left them, though it was scarcely civil to do so, when -they had so many questions to ask. - -“Her mother!” Rhoda said, pondering. “Is it a good thing to bring her -mother? What good can her mother do her? She is not a doctor. I should -think Mr. Darrell himself would be more good than that.” - -“Oh, my dear, the very sight of your mother makes such a difference when -there is anything the matter with you,” said Miss Hofland. “At least,” -she added presently, “all the girls say so. I never had one, for my -part.” - -Rhoda looked up at her with intelligent but unfathomable eyes, and said -nothing. It appeared that the words did not bring any warmer response -from Rhoda’s heart. - -But it would be vain to attempt to describe the agitation and trouble -which was caused in the parsonage by Mr. Darrell’s telegram. “Will Mrs. -Asquith come at once? Daughter ill, not dangerous, but critical. -Carriage will meet nine-thirty train.” - -“It must be something very bad,” Mary said. - -“No, my dear, I hope not. ‘Not dangerous, but critical.’ You must not -frighten yourself. You must husband your strength,” said the parson; but -he spoke with a forced voice, and had grown very pale, paler indeed than -she was; for she had so many things to think of, and he thought only of -Hetty--poor little Hetty, papa’s pet, as they always called her--ill and -far from home. - -“You must take charge of the little ones, Janey. You must not let them -make a noise or annoy papa; you must see that the boys have their -breakfast in good time for school, and don’t let Mary Jane oversleep -herself. Papa will let you have the little clock with the alarum in your -room.” - -“Oh yes, mamma! I will try and remember everything,” said Janey among -her tears. - -“Get in the books every week, and look over them carefully. Don’t let -anything be put down that we haven’t had--you know how careless people -are sometimes; and above all keep the house quiet when papa is in his -study. You know the importance of that.” - -“Oh, mamma!” said Janey, “do you think then that you shall be so very, -very long away?” - -“I hope I maybe back again to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow,” said -Mary briskly. “It will depend upon how I find her. I don’t doubt in the -least home will be the best thing for her; but in case I should be -detained,” she said smiling, with her eyes very bright and liquid, each -about to shed a tear, “it is so much better to mention everything. Of -course I shall write; but, Janey dear, you know you have not the habit -of minding everything as--as she had----” - -“Oh, mamma, why don’t you say Hetty? Why don’t you call her by her -name? It is so awful to hear you say _she_, as if--as if----” - -“Didn’t I call her by her name?--my dear little Hetty, my own little -girl! Oh! and to think that it was I that sent her away!” - -“It isn’t dangerous, Mary, we have got the doctor’s word for that,” said -her husband. - -“Oh yes, to be sure we have. I am not at all frightened. You know when -anything is the matter with her she gets very down, and strangers would -not understand. I am all ready, Harry. No, I don’t want a cab. One of -the boys can carry my bag to the station, and I would rather walk. I -shall have no fatigue, you know, in the railway; it will be quite a rest -for me, sitting still for so many hours.” - -“A third-class journey is not much of a rest,” said the parson, shaking -his head. - -“And the carriage to meet me when I get there,” said Mary with a smile; -“I shall feel quite a lady again, like old times, stepping out of the -third class.” - -Half the family went with her to the station to see her off. Janey had -to deny herself and stay at home with the little ones, and keep -everything in order; for Mary Jane was young, and not to be trusted all -by herself. Janey felt as if her heart was wrenched out of her when -mamma went away to nurse Hetty, who was ill and perhaps dying, while she -must stay here and watch the little ones playing, who knew nothing about -it and could not understand. To have gone with her to the train and seen -her go away, as the others did, would have been something, but even that -solace was denied. To the younger ones it was something like an -unexpected gaiety to see mamma off, and watch the bustle of the train. -They had little or no doubt that Hetty would be all right as soon as -mamma went to take care of her, and the boys could not help feeling a -little important as they relieved each other in carrying the bag. - -Mary, for her part, when she had got into the train and smiled for the -last time at the eager group, and waved her last good-bye, had a very -sad half-hour in the corner, with her veil down, crying and praying for -her child. But after that she tried not to think, which is one of the -hardest of the habitual processes through which a mind has to go which -requires to be always fit for the service of a number of others, and -consequently has to keep itself well in hand. She had been obliged to do -this many times before, and though it was harder than usual, now that -she was alone and had no immediate occupation to take off her thoughts, -yet she did more or less succeed in the effort. There was a poor weakly -young mother in the carriage, going to join her sailor husband -somewhere, with a troublesome baby whom she could not manage. And this -was a great help to Mrs. Asquith in keeping off thought and subduing the -pain of anxiety. She said to herself this was one advantage of the third -class. Had she been travelling luxuriously with a first-class -compartment all to herself, she would not have been able to stop herself -from thinking. This softened even the thrill of old associations which -went through her, when, looking up as the train stopped, she perceived -the little station; and, beyond it, the familiar landscape which she had -not seen for so long. Was it only sixteen years? It looked like -centuries, and yet not much more than a day. Nothing, however, had ever -been at Horton in her time like the spruce brougham which was waiting -for her, with the smart footman--smarter than any one in the service of -the Prescotts had ever been. Amid all the familiarity and the -strangeness Mary’s heart sank within her when the servant came up. “The -young lady’s just the same, madam,” the man said. - -“Can you tell me what’s the matter? Oh! can you tell me?” - -“I don’t know, as no one knows,” said the servant, as he arranged a rug -over her knees. - -“Oh, if you will be so kind--as fast as you can go,” said Mary. - -He seemed to look at her pitifully, she thought. All better hopes, if -she had any, flew at the sight. She felt now that Hetty must be dying, -that the case must be desperate. This delivered her from all feeling in -respect to the old house where she had been brought up, the fields, the -trees, the park--everything which she had known. What did she care about -these associations now? She was as indifferent as if she had been but a -week away, or as if she had never seen the place before. - -The doctor met her at the door, looking so grave. She prepared herself -for the worst again, and entered the old home without seeing or caring -what manner of place it was. “Let me explain to you before you see her, -Mrs. Asquith,” Darrell said, leading the way into the old library, which -she knew so much better than he did. - -“Oh, don’t keep me from her! Let me go to my child! Don’t break it to -me! I can see--I can see in your face!” - -“She is not in any danger,” he said. - -Mrs. Asquith turned upon him with a gasp, having lost all power of -speech: and then the self-control of misery gave way. She dropped into -the nearest chair, and saved her brain and relieved her heart by tears. -“May I trust you?” she asked piteously, with her quivering lips; “Hetty, -my child--is in no danger?” as soon as she was able to speak. - -“None that I can discover; but she is in a very alarming state. She has -had a fright. It seems to have paralysed her whole being. I hope -everything from your sudden appearance.” - -“Paralysed!” - -“I don’t mean in the ordinary sense of the word--turned her to stone, I -should say. Oh, Mrs. Asquith, I fear you will think we have ill -discharged the trust you gave us. Your daughter has been frightened out -of her senses, out of herself.” - -Mary had risen from her seat to go to her Hetty; she stared at him for a -moment, and dropped feebly back again. “Do you mean that my child--my -child is--mad?” she said with horror, clasping her hands. - -“Oh, no, no!” cried the young doctor. “Her mind, I hope, may not be -touched. She is in a state I can’t explain. She takes no notice of -anything. I thought it was catalepsy at first. You will be more -frightened when you see her than perhaps there is any need for -being----” - -“Doctor--if you are the doctor--take me to her, take me to her! that is -better than explanation.” - -“Bear with me a little, Mrs. Asquith. I want you to come in suddenly. I -want to try the shock of your appearance.” - -“Take me to my child!” said Mary; “I cannot bear all these -preliminaries. I have a right to be with Hetty, wherever she is. Where -is she? Tell me what room she is in. I know my way.” - -“Just one moment--one moment!” he said. He led the way to the room which -had been the morning-room in Mary’s day, the brightest room in the -house, looking out upon the flowers, and then left her at the door. -“Come in,” he said, “in five minutes; throw open the door; make what -noise you can--oh! forgive me--and let her see you fully. Don’t come -too quick. It is for her sake. If she knows you, all will go well.” - -“If she knows me!” cried poor Mary. These terrible words subdued her in -her impatience and almost anger. She stood at the door counting the time -by the beatings of her heart. Then she pushed it open, as he told her. -Hetty’s chair had been turned round to face the door, and she sat in it, -her pale hands folded in her lap, her face, like marble, against the -white pillow, her eyes looking steadily before her, with an -extraordinary abstract gaze. Mary stood for a moment, herself paralysed -by that strange sight, clasping her hands, with a cry of trouble and -consternation. Then she flew forward and flung herself on her knees -before this marble image of her child. “Hetty! Hetty! Speak to me,” she -cried, clasping her arms round the inanimate figure. “Hetty!” Then, with -a terrible cry, “Don’t you know your mother? don’t you know your mother, -my darling, my poor child?” - -Mary perceived none of the people behind, - -[Illustration: “‘HETTY! HETTY! SPEAK TO ME.’”] - -watching so anxiously the effect of her entrance, which had been indeed -far more effective, being entirely natural, than anything they had -planned. She saw only the waxen whiteness, the unresponsive silence, of -the poor little soul in prison. She went on kissing the white face, the -little limp hands, pouring out appeals and cries. “Oh, my child! Oh, -Hetty, Hetty! Don’t you know me? I’m your mother, my darling. I’ve come -to fetch you, to take you home. Hetty, my sweet, papa’s breaking his -heart for you; and poor Janey daren’t even cry, dear, for she must take -care of them all while you and I are away. And, Hetty, the baby, your -little baby--Hetty, Hetty! my own darling! Oh, Hetty, say a word to -me--say a word!” - -The statue moved a little; a faint tinge of colour came into the marble -face; the limp little hands unfolded, fluttered a little, made as though -they would go round the mother’s neck. “Mamma!” Hetty said, stammering -as when a child begins to speak. - -And then there awoke a chorus of voices saying, “Thank God!” The women -were all over-joyed, thinking the worst was past. Darrell had said if -she recognised her mother--and it was evident that she had done so. But -he himself stood aloof, keeping his troubled looks out of their sight. -And after Mrs. Asquith had sat by her daughter’s side for hours, telling -her everything as if Hetty fully understood, saying a hundred things to -her--news of home, caresses, tendernesses without end--it presently -became evident to all that very little real advance had been made. Hetty -said, “Mamma!” as she had said, “Thank you,” but she did no more. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XXII. - -MARY’S INVESTIGATIONS. - - -Mrs. Asquith kept to all appearance perfectly tranquil during the rest -of that evening. It was a strange and affecting sight to see her by the -side of Hetty’s chair, talking with a smiling countenance and every -appearance of ease and an unburdened heart. She kept telling all the -nursery stories, all the little family jokes, every kind of trifling -happy circumstance, the commonplaces of the family, to her daughter’s -dulled and heavy ear. The spectators could not understand this strange -sight. _They_ were anxious, but she seemed free from care. They -contemplated that little marble image of poor little Hetty with piteous -eyes, shaking their heads aside, and saying to each other that, after -all, the appearance of her mother had not done what was hoped. But the -mother sat and smiled and talked as if she had been altogether -unconscious that Hetty was not as she had been. Miss Hofland, though she -could not understand, though she could not approve, this strange mode of -action, got interested in spite of herself in all those unknown -children, and found herself softly laughing in the background at the -tricks of the boys, and Janey’s matronly demeanour, and the sweet little -sayings of the baby. It all looked so pretty, and tender, and sweet. But -how that woman could talk, and talk, and smile, and tell those stories -with poor Hetty blanched and unresponsive like marble, wax--anything -that you can think of which is most unlike flesh and blood, was what -Miss Hofland could not understand. She felt very angry. She said to -herself, “That woman has so many, she has no heart for this one;” and -felt as if she loved poor Hetty better than her mother did, who showed -so little feeling. Rhoda, who had stolen in when no one was looking, -was, on the contrary, fascinated by Mrs. Asquith. She crept closer and -closer, and at last curled herself up on the skirt of the stranger’s -gown like a little dog, and listened, and laughed, and clapped her hands -at all those stories. “Oh, tell me a little more about little Mary! Oh! -what did baby say?” Rhoda cried, pushing closer and closer. Mrs. Asquith -put one arm round the child, though without looking at her. She could -think even of that strange child, who had been the cause of it all, with -Hetty lying motionless there! - -But all this had no effect upon Hetty, the lookers-on thought. An -occasional faint smile came to the corners of her mouth, something so -faint, so evanescent, that it could scarcely be called a smile; a faint -little colour, almost imperceptible, came upon her marble paleness; now -and then she said, “Mamma!” quite inconsequently, not as an answer to -anything, and the tiny hands that had been folded in her lap were folded -now in one of her mother’s hands, which seemed to communicate a little -warmth, a little life--a poor result to have effected by the heroic -measure of sending for her, and admitting a stranger, against every -rule, to this secluded house. The housekeeper was very impatient of the -whole business. “You did it against everything I could say; and nothing -has come of it,” she said. - -“As for that, we can’t tell yet,” said the doctor, naturally taking his -own part; but he was very anxious, and did not seem to have taken much -comfort from the new arrival. He had gone into the library to talk it -over with his coadjutor, while Hetty was being conveyed to bed. The -house was very quiet, the room badly lighted, the lamp on the table -bringing out the anxious expression on the young man’s troubled face, -and half showing the figure of the housekeeper, who stood on the other -side of the table. The light fell upon her hands clasped in front, and -showed her person vaguely, but her face was in the shade. - -“The right thing to do would have been to send the girl off to that man -who treats hysteria,” she said; “he would soon have brought her to her -senses. What good can the mother do?--a silly woman telling all that -nonsense that the girl can’t hear, and would not care for if she did! -Rhoda likes it, to be sure,” she said, with a short laugh; “and perhaps -she thinks that to make an impression upon Rhoda, who will be an -heiress, is always worth her while.” - -“It is no part of your business, or mine either, to judge Mrs. Asquith,” -young Darrell said impatiently; but there could be little doubt that he -was disappointed too. The effect of the mother’s first appearance had -not been what he hoped. - -“And here we’ve brought in, against all our promises, just the last -person in the world that ought to be admitted into this house.” - -“I made no promises,” said the young doctor hurriedly. “How could I on -this subject? No one could have foreseen such a combination of -circumstances--a near relation when we expected a stranger.” - -“Only a cousin,” the housekeeper said quickly; “but now the thing is to -get rid of her as soon as possible, and in the meantime to keep her -completely in the---- Good gracious! I beg your pardon, ma’am,” cried -Mrs. Mills, quickly stepping out of the way. - -“I knocked, but you did not hear me,” said Mary. “You forget that I know -my way about this house.” She passed the housekeeper by, and came up to -where Darrell was sitting, and drew a chair to the table near him. “I -have got my poor child to bed. She looks as if she had fallen asleep; -whether it is sleep or stupor I can’t tell, but she is very quiet. Now -will you tell me how it happened?” Mary said. Her voice was very quiet, -but very serious--not the voice of one who was to be trifled with. -Instinctively both the listeners perceived this. Darrell cast an -anxious, almost imploring glance into the surrounding dimness of the -half-lighted room, and the housekeeper stirred from one foot to the -other with an involuntary motion. She had not thought much of Mrs. -Asquith as an antagonist, but now she began to change her mind. - -“How it happened?” said the young doctor, faltering. “I am afraid it was -a fright. She got a--fright.” - -“We cannot tell exactly how it happened,” said the housekeeper quickly, -“for it happened in the middle of the night.” - -“But you must have some sort of understanding. A thing like that can’t -happen in a house without some one knowing. How was it? even if you -can’t tell me what it was.” - -“It all arose from this, ma’am,” said the housekeeper, “that Miss -Asquith would have her window open at night. Some people I know have -fads on that subject; if I asked her once, I asked her a dozen times not -to do it, but she would. She would not be guided by me.” - -“She left her window open all night? Well, and what happened?” Mary -said. - -Mr. Darrell cleared his throat. A kind of loathing of the glib woman, -who was so ready to answer for him, quickened his speech. “So far as we -can tell, something came into her room and frightened her,” he said. - -“Something? Oh! this is trifling,” cried Mary impatiently. “Many, many a -night have I slept in this house with my window open. The windows were -always open. What is there about, to come in at an open window in the -middle of the night?” - -The two culprits exchanged a glance across the table. The housekeeper -could see the doctor’s pale face full of revelations, but he could not -see hers. “That’s what we don’t know,” she said. “Miss Hofland will tell -you that she warned her just as I did. Supposing it was something quite -innocent--as harmless as you please--one of the sheep in the park, or a -cow! A cow’s an innocent thing, but it would give you a terrible fright -in the middle of the night; or even a rabbit or a squirrel,” continued -Mrs. Mills, getting confidence as she went on; “it was one of the -animals about the place, for anything we know.” - -“What do you know? will you tell me exactly? What roused you first? and -when you went to her what did you see?” - -The housekeeper shivered a little. “We found her lying on her bed, poor -dear! with her eyes staring, the bedclothes clenched in her hands as if -she had tried to cover her face. Oh, Mrs. Asquith! I thought the child -was dead.” She stopped with a half sob. “And the half of the French -window wide open--it’s not a sash window in that room--standing wide -open, showing how it had come in.” - -“How what had come in?” said Mary huskily, scarcely able to command her -voice. - -“How can I tell? Some wild creature out of the woods--some of the -animals that had got loose about the farm.” - -“Was there any trace of an animal? There must have been some trace!” - -“Or it might,” said the housekeeper with a sob, the strong excitement of -the moment gaining upon her, “have been a tramp that had hidden about -the place.” - -Mary pushed her chair from the table, and covered her face with her -hands. But it was only for a moment. She came back to herself, and to -the examination of these unwilling witnesses, before they could draw -breath, but not before a low indignant outcry, “No, no!” had burst from -the young doctor’s lips. She turned upon him with the speed of -lightning. “Mr. Darrell!” she cried, “was it a tramp that got into my -child’s room in the middle of the night? Speak the truth before God!” - -What did she suspect or fear? The question flashed through his mind with -a shock of strange sensation. “No,” he said, looking at her, “it was no -tramp.” - -“And you know who it was?” - -She rose up and confronted him with her pale, set face, holding him with -her eyes, which were like Hetty’s eyes, in the strain of the horrible -gaze that had settled in them that night. He was helpless in her hands -like a child. “Yes,” he said, “I know.” - -She could not speak, but she made him an imperative gesture to go on. He -was no longer the unwilling witness, he was the conscious criminal at -the bar. - -“Mrs. Asquith,” he said, with a shiver of nervous emotion, “it needs a -long explanation. I would have to tell you many things to make you -understand.” - -“Many things which you have no right to tell any one, Mr. Darrell,” the -housekeeper said. - -Mary once more insisted with an imperious wave of her hand. The young -man made a nervous pause. “I have an--invalid gentleman under my -charge,” he said. - -“Mr. Darrell!” cried the housekeeper again, “do you remember all you’ve -promised? You’ve no right to go against them that support you, them that -pay you.” - -“What is that to me?” cried Mary quickly. “What do I want with your -secrets? Tell me about my child!” - -“I will tell you everything,” he said. “It has been against my -conscience always. I’ll have this burden no longer. He wanders about at -night, we can’t help it, he slips from our hands. And I suppose he saw -the open window. I--I was too late to keep him back. I found him there. -He thought she was his child, whom he thinks he has lost. When I heard -her scream I knew how it was, and I got him away.” - -“Is this the truth?” Mrs Asquith said; “is this _all_ the truth?” - -“It is everything,” cried the young man; “there is nothing more to tell -you, but there is more for me to do. I give up this charge, Mrs. Mills. -I will do it no more, it is against my conscience. If he only knew a -little better he could bring us both up for conspiracy. I will clear my -conscience of it this very day.” - -“If you are such a fool!” the housekeeper said in her excitement. She -went round to him and caught him by the arm, and led him aside, talking -eagerly. “_She’ll_ pay no attention. What does she care for anything but -her girl?” the woman said. - -Mary had seated herself again suddenly, her brain swimming, her heart -beating. Thank God! she said to herself. She did not know what she had -feared, but something more dreadful, worse than this; her relief was -greater than words could say. She sat down to recover herself. What the -housekeeper said was true. She cared for nothing but her girl. What were -their secrets to her? If somebody was wronged Mary did not feel that it -was her business to set it right. It was her child or whom, and of whom -alone, she was thinking; and in all probability no further thoughts of -the mysterious invalid would have crossed her mind, but for this -incident which now occurred, and which for the moment was nothing but an -annoyance to her, detaining her from Hetty. There was a knock at the -door, to which the others in their preoccupation paid no attention. -After a second knock the door was softly opened, and one of the women -servants came in, a tidy person, in the dark gown and white cap and -apron, which is a respectable maid-servant’s livery. She hesitated for -a moment, and then said, “Oh, please, is Mrs. Asquith here?” - -“Yes, I am here,” cried Mary, quickly getting up, with the idea that she -was being called to Hetty. The woman came in, hurried forward, and made -curtsey after curtsey--a little sniff of suppressed crying attending -each--“Oh, ma’am, don’t you know me? Oh, ma’am, I’ve never forgotten -you! Oh, please, I am Bessie Brown,” she said. - -“Are you indeed Bessie Brown? I am very glad to see you,” said Mrs. -Asquith. “And are you here in service? And how is it I never heard about -you from my Hetty? You were the first nurse she ever had.” - -“Oh, ma’am, is that our baby? and me never to know! I never heard her -name right. I never knew. Oh, to think that poor young lady is our baby! -And the dreadful, dreadful fright she got! But oh! ma’am, perhaps now -you’ve come it is all for the best.” - -“How can it be for the best that my child should be so ill?” said Mary. -“Oh, she is so ill! To see her is enough to break one’s heart.” - -And in the softness of this sympathy, the first touch of the old -naturalness and familiarity which she had yet felt, Mary too began to -cry in the fulness of her heart. - -“The house is dreadful changed, ma’am, and everything going wrong, I -think, though it mayn’t be a servant’s place to speak.” - -“I am afraid,” Mrs. Asquith said, “I am selfish. I think too much of my -own. I can’t enter into the troubles of the new family. It’s only of the -old I can think when I am here.” - -“But oh! it’s no new family, ma’am; it’s the same family, it’s your own, -own family,” cried Bessie Brown. “If you’re married ever so, you can’t -give your natural relations up.” - -“My natural relations!” Mary cried. - -But the conversation by this time had caught the watchful ear of the -housekeeper, who left Darrell and came back to see what was going on -here. - -“Brown,” she said, “what are you doing in this room? who told you to -come and talk to a lady who is paying a visit in the house? I hope, Mrs. -Asquith, you’ll excuse her. There is no rudeness meant,” the housekeeper -said. - -“My natural relations,” Mary repeated. “I don’t know what you mean. The -house has passed into other hands. I don’t suppose there are any of my -relations here.” - -“Brown, you had better go to your work. I’ll answer the lady’s -questions. We did not know till the other day that there was any -relationship.” - -“But,” said Mary bewildered, “it is Mrs. Rotherham----” - -“Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham. My lady was an heiress. She married Mr. -Prescott----” - -The discovery was too bewildering and strange to convey itself -distinctly to Mary’s troubled brain. She said only something which she -felt to be entirely irrelevant. - -“Who, then, is the invalid gentleman?” she cried. - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -THE SICK-ROOM. - - -Mrs. Asquith took her place in Hetty’s room to keep watch there, with -indescribable anxiety and alarm. She had been warned that every night -since that mysterious occurrence Hetty had seemed to go over again in -her dreams the midnight visit which had jarred her being. It had been -the effort of her nurses to soothe and silence her, to get her, if -possible, to forget; but every night the dreadful recollection had come -back. Mary sat down to watch, feeling that this moment of return upon -the cause of all the trouble might be the moment of recovery, if she but -knew how to use it aright. But that was the question, of far more -importance for the moment than those other wonders and anxieties which -had arisen in her mind, and which she had not been able to satisfy. How -was she to act that this moment might be the critical one, that she -might be able to penetrate within the mist that enveloped Hetty? She -tried to think, tried to form for herself a plan of action, but with -trembling and doubt. The child’s life, the child’s reason, might depend -upon her own presence of mind, her power to touch the right chord, her -wisdom. Mary had never taken credit to herself for wisdom. She had never -had to face the intricate problems of human consciousness; how to -minister to a mind diseased had never been among her many duties. Out of -all the simple calls of her practical life, out of her nursery, where -everything was so innocent, how was she to reach at once to the height -of such a crisis as this? She tried to apply all her unused faculties to -it; but they eluded her, and ran into frightened anticipations, -endeavours to realise what was about to happen. She had no confidence -that she would keep her self-possession, or have her wits about her -when the moment come. Oh, if Harry had but been here! But then she -remembered all he had to do, and was glad to think that he would be -quietly asleep and unconscious of what was going on; and that after all, -the fatigue, and the disquietude and dreadful fear that she would not be -equal to the necessities of the occasion, would be endured by herself -alone. He had plenty to trouble him, she reflected. He would be wretched -enough in his anxiety, without wishing him to share this vigil. And then -Mary appealed silently to the only One Who is never absent in trouble, -imploring Him to stand by her; and felt a little relief in that, and in -the softening tears that came with her prayer. - -The room was very still, and so was the house, all wrapt in sleep and -silence. The housekeeper and Miss Hofland had both offered to sit up, -but she had rejected all companionship. She could not have borne the -presence of a stranger, or the possibility of any third person coming -between her and her child. A nightlight burned faintly in a corner; the -light of the fire diffused a soft glow. All was warm and still and -breathless in the deep quiet of the night. And as the hours passed on so -still, bringing no change with them, Mary’s thoughts wandered to the -past, into which she seemed to have come back when she entered this -house. Her youth seemed to come back: the familiar figures which she had -not seen for years surrounded her once more. Hetty slept, or seemed to -sleep, not moving in her bed; and in Mary’s thoughts the familiar room -took back its old appearance. This was where the mother of the house had -sat with her basket of coloured worsteds and her endless work, which was -never done. And there the girls had their little establishments: Anna -with her music, Sophie with her little drawings. Neither the drawings -nor the music had been of high quality, but Mary’s anxious heart went -away to them in the midst of this vigil, and got a moment’s refreshment -and affectionate soft consolation out of their faded memory. She had not -been of much account in those days, but they had all been good to her. -And now they were both at the other end of the world, knowing nothing of -Mary, as Mary knew nothing of them. And Percy, where was he, the -handsome, careless fellow? And John, poor John? Ah! that struck a -different chord in her musings. Where was he, if this house was still -his? and who was the wife that had made him rich, and then left him, and -left her child in this mysterious way? Where was John? Was it true that -he had lost his wits (he had so few, dear fellow, at the best of -times!), and was shut up somewhere in a madhouse, as had been said? Shut -up in a madhouse, he who never would have hurt a fly, shut up--shut up! - -Mary’s thoughts had run away with her, had made her forget for a moment -what was her chief object, her only object. The start she gave, when a -new and alarming idea thus came into her mind, brought her back to -herself. She had drifted towards that wondering suspicion, that -undefined alarm on the evening before, after Bessie’s revelation, and -Mrs. Mills’ evident desire to stave off all further questions. Who was -the invalid gentleman? she had asked with an awakening of curiosity, of -interest, and wonder. But the housekeeper and the doctor had been called -most opportunely away, and she had got no answer to a question. She -started when it came back thus in sudden overwhelming force. But the -very keenness of the question, which felt almost like a discovery, -brought her back to herself with a guilty sensation, as if she had -forgotten Hetty in thus following out another train of thought. And what -was all the world in comparison with Hetty, whose well-being now hung in -the balance, and whom perhaps her mother, dreaming and thinking of -others, might miss the moment to save? She recovered herself in an -instant, and brought herself back with all her mind concentrated upon -her child. Hetty lay still as in depths of sleep; but from time to time -her eyes were opened, though only to close again, and the sight of those -open eyes chilled the mother through and through, and drove everything -else out of her mind. It was now the most ghostly depth of night, the -darkest and the coldest, when morning seems to begin to wake with a -chill and shiver. Hetty’s eyes had closed again, and Mrs. Asquith had -resumed her seat to watch, with a nervous anticipation of the -crisis--when presently the bed shook with the nervous shuddering of the -little form that lay on it; and starting up, she found Hetty with her -eyes wide open, an agonised look upon her face, and her hands clutching -the bedclothes, as had been described to her. The mother’s dress -brushing the bed as she rose hastily, seemed to increase the dreamer’s -horror. She began to move from side to side, moaning as in a nightmare, -struggling to rise. And then a babble of broken words came to her lips. -What was she saying? Mrs. Asquith listened with keen anguish, her -faculties sharpened to their utmost strain. Was it some explanation, -some complaint, that Hetty was trying to utter, something that would -make this mystery clear? Her mother made out that it was the same thing -over and over, now more now less clear. Her ears made out the words at -last by dint of repetition--Heaven knows, the most innocent words!--“My -child, my little darling! my child, my little darling! have I found you -at last?” - -When this had gone on for some time, Mary in her excitement could bear -it no longer. She raised her child suddenly in her arms, clasping her -close, taking possession of her in a transport of love and pity. -“Hetty!” she cried, “Hetty!” almost with a shriek. “What is it? what is -it? Tell me what it is!” - -The girl uttered another cry, a wild and piercing shriek, as shrill as -that which on the former occasion had roused the house. She started up -in her bed, struggling, pushing Mrs. Asquith’s arms away, looking wildly -round her with the frantic gaze of terror. Then all at once the contrast -seemed to reach her stunned soul--not darkness and the awful visitant -who had driven her out of herself, but light and that beloved face -which poor Hetty thought she had not seen for years. She gave another -cry of recognition, “Mother!” and flung herself upon her mother’s -breast. Mrs. Asquith trembled with the shock, for Hetty plunged into her -arms and buried her face as if she had fled into some place of refuge; -but if it had been the weight of the great house, as well as that of -Hetty, Mary could have borne it in the sudden hope and relief of her -soul. - -“My dearest!” she said, “my sweet, my own Hetty, I’m here. There’s -nobody can touch you, I’m here! Don’t you know, my darling, your mother? -There’s nobody can touch you while I am here!” - -Hetty made no response in words, but she suspended her whole weight upon -her mother, clinging to her, burrowing with her head on Mary’s bosom. It -was no ordinary embrace; it was the taking of sanctuary, the entry into -a city of refuge. So far as the child was aware, she had found her -natural protector for the first time. She hid herself in Mary, -disappearing almost in the close clasping arms, in the soft shield and -shelter of her mother’s form. Mary’s head was bowed down on Hetty’s; her -shoulders curved about her; the girl’s slim white figure almost -disappeared, all pressed, folded, enclosed in the mother’s embrace. This -was what the housekeeper saw when she rushed to the door, roused by the -scream, expecting some repetition of the former scene. Mary signed to -her with her eyes, having no other part of her free, to go away. She -made the same sign to Miss Hofland, who appeared in her nightdress, -trembling and distressed, behind the well-clothed housekeeper. Mary felt -that she dared not speak to them, dared not even move or say a word. The -success of all depended on her being left alone with her child. - -Even the movement of this interruption, however, though hushed and full -of precaution, aided the clearing of Hetty’s brain. She raised her head -for a moment, gave a furtive glance round. “Is he--is he--gone, mamma?” - -“Yes, my darling; there is no one here but you and I.” - -Hetty moved a little more, and cast a tremulous glance, holding her -mother tighter and tighter, over her shoulders. “Is the window--shut? Is -it safe? Are you sure? Are you sure”--with another passionate strain, -under which Mary tottered, yet held up mechanically, she could not tell -how--“that he can’t come back?” - -To Hetty’s bewildered mind the terrible moment of that midnight visit -had only just passed. She knew nothing of the interval; nor did she ask -how it was that, miraculously, when she was most wanted, her mother had -come to her; that is always natural in a child’s experience. She wanted -no explanation of that, but only to make sure that the cause of her -terror had disappeared. - -“Darling, lie down and go to sleep. You are safe, quite safe. I am going -to stay with you, don’t you see? Could any harm happen to you and me -here?” - -Hetty raised her head and turned her face upward for her mother’s kiss. -It was warm and soft with returning life. “No!” she said, with a -long-drawn breath, with that profound conviction of childhood. She had -turned into a child after her trance, all other development disappearing -for the moment. But her hands seemed incapable of disengaging -themselves. She could not loosen her hold. “Oh, mamma, don’t let me go! -oh, hold me fast! Oh, don’t let any one come, mamma!” - -“Nobody, my love; I won’t leave you, not for a moment--not for a moment, -Hetty.” - -After a while the girl fell fast asleep, with her head upon her mother’s -shoulder, and her arms so soft, yet clenched like iron round Mary’s -neck. Hetty was far too profoundly dependent, too desperate in her -absolute need, to be capable of thinking of the comfort of her shield -and guardian. Cramped and aching, but happy and relieved beyond -description in mind, Mary, too, after a while dozed and slept. When she -opened her eyes, the chill grey of the morning was coming on. The night -was over, with its dangers and fears. Hetty’s desperate clinging had -relaxed; her head was falling back; the soft warmth and ease of sleep -had softened all the rigidity of her trance away. Mary laid her down -softly upon her pillow with a light heart, though every limb and every -muscle was aching, and took her place once more by the bedside, that she -might be the first object on which her child’s waking eyes should rest. -And Hetty slept--how long she slept! Fatigue crept over Mrs. Asquith; -she dozed, and dreamed, and woke with a start, half-a-dozen times -before, in the full daylight, Hetty opened her eyes. There was a moment -of awful suspense--the blank look of her stupefied state seemed to waver -for an instant over her face, like a mist trembling, wavering, uncertain -whether to go or stay. Then light broke out, and love and meaning in the -girl’s eager look. “Oh, mamma!” - -There had been by this time many anxious tappings at the door. Miss -Hofland had looked in with an anxious face; and little Rhoda, with eyes -full of awe, had peeped round the edge of the door; and the housekeeper, -with whispers and signs and that invariable cup of tea which is intended -to be the consolation of the watcher. But Mary would not be beguiled for -a moment from her child’s side; the danger was too near, the deliverance -too great, to be trifled with. And the other great questions which had -almost distracted her mind from Hetty came back as she waited. Hetty’s -murmurs in the hour of recollection had strangely, fantastically -strengthened her suspicions. Could she dare to recall Hetty, waking and -restored to reason, to that awful remembrance? Whatever happened she -could not risk her child. - -This question was put to rest later in the day by Hetty herself, who, -very weak, scarcely able to move with physical exhaustion, lay still in -her bed, regarding her mother with all a child’s beatitude. She had -heard all the nursery stories again, Rhoda assisting as before, and -laughed and cried and been happy in all the sweetness of convalescence -over the little witticisms of baby. But later, when Rhoda, was sent -away, Hetty lay very silent for a time, and then called her mother to -her bedside. - -“Mamma,” she said, growing paler and deeply serious, “I wanted to ask -you, could he take me for Rhoda? Could he be--could he be--Rhoda’s -_father_, mamma?” - -“Hetty,” said Mary, taking her child’s hands, “could you repeat to me, -my darling, quietly, without exciting yourself, what you told me in the -night? What he said?” - -The colour came in a flood to Hetty’s face, then ebbed away, leaving her -quite pale. She clasped her mother’s hands tight; and then she repeated -slowly, like a lesson, “Oh, my child, my little darling! have I found -you at latht?” - -“Oh, Hetty! God bless you, my dearest! Why did you say ‘at latht’?” Mary -cried. - -Hetty looked at her mother with startled eyes. “I don’t know what I -said. I said only what he said, mamma.” - -“Hetty,” cried Mary in great agitation, “I think God has sent us here, -both you and me.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -THE INVALID GENTLEMAN. - - -Mary stole out in the afternoon, when the day was beginning to wane. It -was not only that as soon as her anxieties were relieved the spell of -the old associations came back: a far more serious pre-occupation was in -her mind, though all was mystery round her. The question that had sprung -up within her came back and back like a fitful wind through all the -agitations and happiness of the day. Her body was altogether worn out by -excitement and anxiety, and by the long vigil of that troubled night; -but, as happens sometimes in such a case, her mind was only the more -eager and alive, her senses keener to everything around. She had sat by -Hetty’s bedside and talked all the day, talked till her throat and -breast seemed to be strained with physical exertion, talked against -time, against weariness, that her child’s mind might be filled with the -peaceful image of home, so as to leave no room for those distracting -images which had jarred her whole being. Mary felt the strain of that -monologue almost more than any other form of fatigue. She was well used -to it, as to all other forms of exhaustion. Talking to children both her -own and others, telling stories, giving lessons, the sensation was not -new to her; but it made the silence and sweet air very grateful, as, -leaving Hetty once more asleep, with Miss Hofland established at her -bedside, she stole out into the great quiet of nature, into the dewy -park and wonderful serenity of the spring afternoon, as it began to -soften into night. - -The grass had been growing all day, the flowers struggling, making their -way upward, the young leaves unrolling their tightly-bound folds out of -their sheaths; and now all seemed to have paused in the midst of that -hopeful, cheerful progress, to rest a little, to get strength for a -warmer effort still. Life, all thrilling through the awakened earth in -every vein, in every pore, paused in the midst of that warm impulse to -rest. She felt in sympathy with all the world, delivered from a terror -beyond description,--from death, and worse than death, her very -exhaustion adding to the refreshment and blessedness of that quiet and -repose. For the moment, except for a vague sense in her mind of an -uneasiness which she held at arm’s length, she was able to give herself -up entirely to this tranquil sweetness. She wandered out, going round -the old house, with every line of which her eyes were familiar, the dear -old house, about which she had tripped in her childhood, when she had -been “only Mary,” running everybody’s errands, doing what everybody told -her--a little unconsidered happy creature, sent up and down, here and -there, but never unkindly, never untenderly, she said to herself with -tears in her eyes. Oh, never unkind! nothing but a little wholesome -neglect, the carelessness of familiarity which in its way was sweet. -She had not been like her own children, wrapped in love from their -cradles, their little interests and pleasures put above everything; but -Mary knew that she had been as happy as a lamb or a bird--creatures -which have no special tendance, but to which all nature is sweet. She -had never known what harsh words were, or harsh judgments. They had let -her grow like a flower; they had kept her from the colds and from the -heats of life; covered her and sheltered her, and loved her in their -way. She looked back upon her young life with a tender gratitude, more -profound than if they had made her the chief object. She had not been so -to any one in Horton, but how much more, she said to herself, in -consequence, all their sweetness and kindness was. To make your own -child happy, upon whom your happiness depends, what is that but -selfishness of the most refined kind? But to make a little creature -happy upon whom your happiness does not depend--is not that true love, -the charity of the Gospel? She thought of them all who had been so good -to her, so kind, so careless, so indulgent, her heart swelling with -tenderness and gratitude. - -When she had got far enough off to take in the full view of the house, -she turned back, renewing as it were her acquaintance with it, following -with tender recollection every line and curve. It was changed in some -respects. The front of the house had been renovated, some parts of the -architecture carefully restored, the grounds about the house all put -into luxurious order. Altogether, she said to herself, it looked as if a -wave of prosperity had visited the place, as if there were no longer a -deficiency of gardeners or of servants to keep it in perfection, as -there once was. The lawn looked as if it were rolled every day; there -was no sign of neglect anywhere--and once there had been so many signs. -Only one thing in which there was no change met her eyes. The east wing -was all shut up as of old, the windows closely shuttered, every opening -closed. All the same, and yet a little different. In former days it had -been evidently a natural expedient, the shutting up of a portion of the -house which the family was not numerous enough or wealthy enough to keep -up. Now it was different. It was an obvious breach of the wealthy -propriety of the place, about which there was no indication that such an -expedient could be necessary. Mary walked slowly round that side of the -house. The shutting up even was not as before. It was far more -elaborate, done with precaution, as if with the view of closing the -interior from all inspection. In the old times, no one had minded what -loop-hole there might be; appearances had not been thought of. And then -her heart began to beat loudly in her ears. Was it possible that this -was a prison, a place of confinement? and who was it that was shut up -there? - -Who was it that could be shut up there? By what right or wrong, without -warrant or authority, nobody knowing, nobody able to help! All the -questions that had been in Mary’s mind, suspended by her exhaustion, and -by the grateful quiet of which she had so much need, sprang up again in -the fullest force. The strange words which Hetty had murmured in her -trance, which she had repeated when in full possession of her mind, -which had evidently engraved themselves on her brain, and which had -roused her mother to one sudden gleam of enlightenment, came back to her -again and seemed to echo in her ears. She had put them away after that -first impression. How could it be? Why should it be? In those days such -things could not happen. Shut up the master of the house in his own -habitation, separate him from his child, conceal him from the world! How -could it be? Who could do it? The motives and the means seemed both -wanting. But Mary’s brain throbbed and whirled, even as she said all -this to herself. She forgot even Hetty in the gathering excitement of -her mind. She walked up and down, up and down, at the foot of the grassy -slope on which those barricaded windows opened. Yes, they had always -been barricaded, but not as they were now! - -The night began to darken round her; already the shrubberies, the -distant trees in the park, began to grow indistinct. The veil of the -twilight dropped slowly over the brightness of the sky. But Mary took no -notice; her steps made no sound upon the damp and mossy velvet of the -turf; her mind grew every moment less under her own control. What could -she do to satisfy that question? Was he there? Who was he? What could -she do? She was but a stranger, though a child of the house; she had -nothing to prove that the invalid gentleman of whom the doctor had -spoken, the wanderer who had broken in upon her child’s rest, had in -reality any connection with the family, or was one for whom she could -interfere: and how could she interfere?--a stranger, a poor woman, the -mother of Miss Rotherham’s companion. That was all Mary was to the -servants and people about. And the invalid might be a stranger too, for -anything she could tell; he might be--anyone. What right had she to jump -to a conclusion, and decide thus who he was? But she could not go in -quietly and sit down, and take care of her child, and perhaps sleep, -while all the while, close to her, within her reach, might be shut up, -deprived of everything, one who perhaps was the rightful master of all. -But how could that be? How could that be? Why, and with what motive, -could such a thing be done? Her brain turned round more than ever, her -mind was all confused, hanging in the misery of doubt and helplessness, -suspended between the how and the why. - -Suddenly she heard a stealthy sound behind her, as of an opened window -or door. She was at the end of the slope, and turned round quickly at -this indication of some one moving. At the end of the long range of -windows she saw a head put dimly forth, and then disappear. Mary divined -that it was her own appearance, vague as it must be in the twilight, -which was the cause. She changed her position, rapidly concealing -herself behind a clump of laurels, and waited. After a little interval -there was a faint stir once more. Almost afraid to breathe, she looked -out between the thick leaves. Something had come out into the dimness of -the night. She felt only as Hetty had done, a movement, a something that -was human, a new breathing in the still atmosphere. The leaves rustled -now and then in the night air, and she felt as if it must be she who did -it, and put her hands upon the bough to keep them still. A strange -horror, half superstitious, came over her; something was coming without -any sound, with nothing but a consciousness in the tingling atmosphere. -She forgot the yielding of the turf, in which no footstep was audible. -It seemed to her that something incorporate, some vision sensible to the -mind alone, must be moving past unseen. Terror took possession of her -soul. Was it this then, and not any suffering human creature, some one -who had _come back_, some one out of the darkness of the grave, whose -presence should chill the blood in her veins, as he had chilled her -child’s. Mary felt as if she hung by her hands from the laurel boughs, -which she had grasped to keep them still. Then, with a sensation of -utter horror, she felt herself slip from them, her hands relaxing. It -had passed; her heart stood still; the surging blood went up and up in -blinding circles to her brain. Then there was a sudden calm in her -being, and the common action of life was taken up again in a moment. In -front of her, going softly across the dim lawn, was a long slim shadow, -the head bent a little, the gait uncertain, swaying as if with weakness. -Mary’s superstitious terrors had vanished in a moment. It was a man she -saw; who he was no one could have told, in the faint evening, on the -noiseless grass; but at all events it was a man. - -Mary’s faculties all came back. Suppose the guess she had made was -right, suppose it was _he_, with only herself in all the world to -protect him! She disengaged herself from the bushes, and gliding from -one shelter to another, sometimes dropping to the ground in her terror, -lest he should be alarmed and fly from her, she followed. The night was -soft and dim, wrapping all things in a ghostly shadow; but she never -lost sight of the vague, moving thing winding out and in among the -bushes, avoiding with a kind of strange skill the front of the house. He -made a long round, and Mary kept up mechanically, always following, her -limbs failing under her. When he had got round to the other side, he -drew slowly near to the corresponding range of windows in the western -wing; and after various falterings mounted the slope, and made his way -along close to the house. The faltering, stealthy figure stealing along, -now with a foot upon the ledge of stone, now all noiseless upon the -turf, made her half shudder with terror, notwithstanding the excitement, -which was all of which she was now sensible, the only thing that kept -her up. Should anyone within catch a glimpse of the noiseless shadow -thus stealing round the house, what wonder if panic and maddening terror -should follow his steps! Mary, stumbling on, felt that she was going -through all that was preliminary to that midnight visit which had half -crazed her child. The gliding figure suddenly stopped. She saw it -pause, turn inward, put up two arms to the window. Thank God, it was no -longer Hetty’s window; the child was safe. And once more, once more--by -what chance who could tell?--the opening gave way. With a last effort of -strength pulling herself together, Mary climbed the slope. - -It had become so dark without that the night had seemed far advanced, -but within lights were shining. The door of the room stood open, -admitting a cheerful glimmer; the sound of voices was audible. Mary came -quickly in, shutting the window behind her, her excitement risen to -fever point. She found herself confronting the ghostly figure, which -stood bewildered in the middle of the room. Even now, even here, sure as -she was that it was a man, and a helpless one, who stood before her, the -horrible alternative, the wild suggestion, that at her touch that shadow -might dissolve and melt away, and leave her mad with the awful -encounter, flashed through Mary’s confused brain. To stand by him in the -dark room was somehow more appalling than to follow through the free -air and space. But it was only in that flash that she remembered herself -at all. The poor wanderer had known his way when he was making that -devious course round the house: he had come soberly with an evident -intention through the clumps and _bosquets_ to this window--he had meant -all along to get here, to enter by it, to pursue his wild search for his -child. But the open door on the other side, the lights gleaming, the -sounds of the household, all active and awake, bewildered him. He -stopped short; perhaps he had already seen that there was no one in the -bed. He stood wavering, tremulous, diverted from his intention, looking -wildly round him. When he caught sight of Mary he shrank back, as if to -escape. Trembling as she was, her lips almost refusing to utter the -words that came to them, her limbs to support her, she tottered up to -him, and caught him by the arm. - -“Yes,” he said, retreating a little before her. “Don’t be angry--I -wanted to thee my little girl.” - -“Oh, John!” cried Mary. “Cousin John!--oh, dear John, you that were -always so good, why won’t they let you live as you ought in your own -house?” - -He stepped still further back, with a gesture of dismay. “Who is that?” -he said. “You’re not Mrs. Mills. I don’t know who you are.” - -“Oh yes, John, you know me, if you will only think; I’m Mary. You -remember Mary, your little cousin, to whom you were always so good?” - -“Mary?” he said. “I know your voice, and I know your name: but they will -not like it. They thay I’m not fit--Mary--I wonder if I would know you -if I thaw you. But don’t tell them I’m here; I daren’t go into the -light.” - -“Cousin John,” said Mary, “tell me who you think I am.” - -He drew back a little farther; it seemed to bewilder him to be so near -her. “I think,” he said, “you must be little Mary that used to be at -home in the old time, Mary that wath married to the curate. I wath very -found of Mary. But don’t tell them I’m here. I’ll go back--I’ll go -back--to my own little place.” - -“This is your place, John. Oh, dear John, who has done this to you? You -shall not go back; you shall stay in your own house, John.” - -“It will only get you into trouble,” he said in a dreamy tone. “She -thaid--she told me----” his voice ran off into a murmur of sound; -perhaps the effect of that _she_, which he uttered with a sharp -sibilation, was too much for him; or perhaps the thought of her was too -much. “Perhapth I had better go back.” - -“No,” cried Mary, grasping his arm with both her hands. “Come with me -and see your little girl.” - -“Oh, my little girl: my little darling!” the poor fellow cried, and -resisted no more. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - -CHAPTER XXV. - -THE RESTORATION. - - -Rhoda’s sitting-room was very warm and pleasant and quiet, the safest -and most comfortable place--the fire lighting it up with fitful gleams, -the windows still glimmering between the curtains with the dim twilight -which had not turned to dark, the pictures and mirrors on the walls -giving forth gleams of ruddy reflection. There were no longer flowers -outside to brighten the prospect, but within groups of plants in every -corner, and a tall pot of creamy, fragrant narcissus spreading its -delicate spring scent through the room. The warm flicker of the -firelight seemed to draw out the sweetness of the flowers, the deeper -tints of colour, the reds and browns of the furniture. There could not -have been a woman’s apartment more entirely breathing of women, and of -comfort, and tranquillity, and peace. Hetty lay on the sofa near the -fire, the ruddy glow shedding a pink colour over her still pale face. -Rhoda sat at her feet, leaning against the sofa, holding up her eager -little face, asking questions in her eager way about Hetty’s home, about -the children, about baby, who was so funny. “Oh! I wish I could see him. -Oh, I wish I could go and play with them all!” Rhoda said. Hetty, who -had been removed here in her mother’s absence to join the little party -once more, in the sweetness of that convalescence, which was almost more -than coming back to health, lay smiling, answering the child’s questions -in a little broken voice of weakness and happiness. Miss Hofland sat on -a low chair by the fire, going through her usual little calculations, -setting down all the comforts on one side against the very curious -condition of this house on the other. All these things that had happened -were very mysterious. The whispers of the maids, which could scarcely -fail to reach her, were full of suggestions. It was not pleasant to live -in a house where such strange things were heard and seen; but then, on -the other hand, it was very comfortable. There was scarcely anything one -wanted that one could not have. In some families the treatment was very -different. She was putting these things meditatively against one another -when the servant came in with the lamp. There was an abundant supply of -light, as of everything else--no stint of anything--lamps and candles, -it did not seem to matter how many were used. It was very comfortable, -enough to make up for the many unpleasant circumstances which did not -after all touch either her pupil or herself. - -Just then the servant, going away after he had placed the lamp, uttered -a cry of alarm, and seemed to fall back against the wall, letting go the -handle of the door. Miss Hofland started up, feeling that if anything -dreadful came in here, into this warm and pleasant place, all the -comfort would not make up for such an interruption. She rose so -hurriedly that her chair turned over, coming down with a muffled sound -on the carpet, and turned her startled face towards the door. Mrs. -Asquith had just come in, looking very pale and excited, leaning upon -the arm of--no, she was not leaning, she was guiding him with her hand -through his arm--a tall, slim man with a strange grey coat, too large -for him, and wrapping over his shadowy thinness, a long face, with large -projecting eyes, grizzled hair hanging wildly, a ragged beard, and -drooping, melancholy moustache hiding the outlines of the tremulous -mouth. He had a bewildered, dazed look, and turned his head slowly from -side to side, as if he scarcely saw, and did not know where he was. - -And before a word could be said, almost before the attention of the -girls had been roused, or Miss Hofland’s cry of alarm got vent, the -housekeeper rushed into the room. She swept into it like a whirlwind, -and placed herself at the other side of that strange figure. - -“Sir, sir!” she cried, “you must go back, you must go back--you must not -be seen here!” - -“John!” cried Mrs. Asquith, “don’t give way to her; this is your house, -and here is your child.” - -He turned his face from one side to the other, shrinking a little from -the housekeeper, yet making a step back as if in obedience--appealing to -Mary, yet drawing his arm away from hers in a self-contradictory -movement, opening his mouth but only with a gasp, saying nothing. - -Mrs. Mills put her hand upon his sleeve. - -“Come back, sir,” she said; “come back, oh! come back to your own -comfortable room, where things are fit and proper for you. My mistress -would break her heart if she thought you were here. Oh, sir, come back! -You know what my mistress would say, and that it’s all for your good. -What does she think of night and day but for your good?” - -He gasped again as if for breath, and then drew away, retreating a -little. “Mary,” he said, “perhapth she’s right. I’ll be better in my own -place.” As he stood thus irresolute, feeble, with a woman on each side -of him, a picture of a bewildered soul cowed with long subjection, there -came into the movement of the strange little drama another unexpected -actor. Hetty had sprung up from her sofa, forgetting her weakness, -putting out her hands at first as if to keep away the sight; and her -movement had disturbed Rhoda, who sprang up too, and stood for a moment -astonished, taking in the scene. Then with a cry the little girl flung -herself forward, clutching at the grey coat, clinging to his knees. -“Father!” she cried. Her little voice, shrill in its childish tones, -rang through the air like the ring of a pistol shot, clearing away the -mist. He gave a great, sobbing cry, shook himself clear, and stooping -down, gathered the child into his arms. They all stood round, a group of -hushed spectators, to watch that meeting. He seemed to grope for a -chair, and sat down and folded her to him. “My little girl, my darling! -my little girl, my darling! I’ve found you at latht!” Hetty tottered -across the floor to her mother, and caught her arm and clung to her, -hiding her head upon Mary’s shoulder. And behind them all young Darrell -came in, and stood looking on like the rest. - -Even the housekeeper had been paralysed by - -[Illustration: “‘MY LITTLE GIRL, MY DARLING!’” (_p. 374._)] - -this touching sight; she had not been able to speak or interfere, but at -the appearance of Darrell she recovered herself. “Doctor,” she said, -going up to him, “you know what our orders are, you know he’ll hurt -himself by this, you know it’s for his good--for his good. What were we -put here for but for his good? And who is this lady that has ventured to -interfere? Doctor, call Turner, call the man, and take him back. I order -you,” cried the woman, “in my mistress’s name, take him back. Sir, sir, -Mr. Prescott! take the child from him, take him back.” - -No one paid any attention to her cries, and the woman was almost beside -herself. “Miss Hofland,” she said, “it’s as much as our places are -worth. You said yourself it was a comfortable house. Oh, for goodness’ -sake take the child from him, take the child from him! Don’t you know -he’s off his head? I’ve got my mistress’s authority. -Turner--doctor--this moment, he must be taken back!” - -Little Rhoda here released herself from her father’s arms. She put -herself before him like a guardian spirit, not angel, for her eyes -flashed fire, and her little hands clenched. “If you touch him I’ll kill -you! I’ll kill you!” cried the little girl, setting her white teeth. - -“Mrs. Mills,” said Mary, “the time for all that is over; I am here to -protect my cousin. Whatever your mistress may do or say, I am his -nearest relation here. We can take care of Mr. Prescott without you; he -shall neither be shut up nor coerced again. Doctor, he knows us all; he -only wants his child; he is as gentle as an infant. Why should he be -shut up and banished from the light of day?” - -“There is no reason at all,” young Darrell said. “I am ashamed of my -part in it. It was I who opened the door to him to-night; I hoped that -this would happen which has happened. I don’t know if you will ever -believe that I acted at first in good faith. There is no reason, no -reason at all, for keeping him confined now.” - -John Prescott sat holding his child with one arm round her, looking out -solemnly upon the group about him. There was something in the aspect of -his large immovable eyes, showing that he saw imperfectly if at all, -which strangely heightened the effect of the scene. He put out his other -arm as if feeling for some one. “Mary, Mary! Wasn’t Mary here?” - -She came up to him and took his hand. “Yes, John, I am here, I am here: -nobody shall touch you. They daren’t touch you while I am here.” - -It was the second time in twenty-four hours that she had brought peace -and security by these words--she, a helpless woman, the poor parson’s -wife, never of much account in the world--and yet they were true! But -probably John Prescott did not make any question to himself how that -was, or even understand clearly what she was doing for him. He grasped -her hand, making no reply to what she said. “Mary,” he said slowly, “I -want your advice.” - -“Yes, John.” - -“Mutht a man do all his wife says? She’s clever, and I’m not. I never -was one of the clever fellowths. She’s gone away, and I promithed-- But, -Mary, I want my little girl.” - -“Yes, John, and you shall have her. You shall not be parted again,” Mary -cried with tears. - -“I want my little girl. They say I frightened thome one that wasn’t -mine; I ask her pardon, I’m sure. I never meant to frighten any one; all -I want ith my little girl.” - -“Father, here I am!” cried little Rhoda, one arm clasping his, one -uplifted in defence. - -“And, Cousin John, oh! I love you too: I wasn’t frightened,” Hetty -cried. - -The sound of this prodigious falsehood, told with all the conviction of -the heart, brought a note of something like laughter into the room, when -this scene ended, the strange little drama, which, but for Hetty’s -fright and Mary’s arrival, might have been a tragedy, and ended in a -very different way. - -The explanation of the circumstances was not difficult to give. John -Prescott had married, or rather, to use a juster phraseology, had been -married to, a Californian lady with a great fortune, who had come to -England to dazzle the old civilization, as so many do. But the earl, or -the viscount, or the duke’s son, who are the natural prey of such -conquering invaders, had not turned up, and the beautiful old house, and -the armorial bearings of the Prescotts, and all that was old and -traditionary about them, had been felt by Miss Rotherham to be next -best. To say that her husband belonged to the old untitled aristocracy, -who looked upon new lordships with contempt, was so refined and -exquisite a piece of brag that the imagination of the daughter of the -wilds was captivated by it. And John looked every inch an effete -aristocrat, languid with over-civilization. She took him, with his old -place and impoverished estate, as if he had been a choicer piece of -antiquated lumber than all the rest. But when she had been married for a -few years to John, that vivacious representative of the New World had -found her stupid Englishman too much for her. His very goodness had -driven her frantic. He had submitted to almost anything she exacted, -with a dull amiability which took all her patience from her. Finally he -had got blind, or almost blind, but never otherwise than patient, -uncomplaining, and kind, adoring his child, who adored him, and very -submissive to his wife. And she did not find her untitled aristocracy -did her much good in a social point of view. The compatriots who had -secured the earls and the viscounts laughed, and the Prescotts had -fallen out of society too long in the days of their poverty to recover -their position easily. And John was dull. Ye heavens! how dull he -was--dull even to the simple people who loved him at home--how much more -dull to the lively Transatlantic who had intended to build her -advancement upon him, but never had loved him at all! - -Mrs. Asquith found out by degrees that her cousin’s wife had tried to -make him out incapable of managing his affairs, and to get him shut up, -which was unkind, seeing that he was perfectly content to commit to her -hands the management of these affairs, and never grumbled at her -absences, or found fault with her proceedings, too happy to be left with -Rhoda in the home he loved. Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham, however, had failed -in this, and thereupon had organized another plan for freeing herself -from circumstances which she would not tolerate. To have great wealth -and belong to a new civilization in which there is little bondage of -precedent, and not to have whatever you like, whatever you can pay for, -is intolerable. It is always intolerable not to be able to do what one -pleases, and have what one likes; but these are things which most people -have to put up with. Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham did not see why she should -put up with anything she disliked so much, and she went off to America -to obtain a divorce. If she had told John this, the probabilities were -that, unless some sudden gleam of religious objection had crossed the -tranquillity of his dulled brain, he would have acquiesced, as he did -everything else. But there are limits to the boldness even of a rich -Californian, accustomed to see all obstacles disappear before her. And -what she did was to persuade her husband that to confine himself -entirely to his own rooms would be good for his eyes and for his health, -and that until her return it was his policy to lead a secluded life. She -pointed out to him the misery of being plagued by visitors, the trouble -which even Rhoda’s governess would bring upon him, and that to seclude -himself in the east wing while she was absent was the best thing he -could do. Poor John did not know till she was gone that he was to be -secluded from Rhoda too; but though it was very difficult to manage him -when he learned this, yet he was smoothed down and coaxed into patience -for the time. Needless to say that of the divorce suit going briskly on -on the other side of the Atlantic nobody knew. The citation to John to -appear had been conveyed to him in a newspaper, which he had solemnly -opened, as was his wont, looked at with his half-blind eyes, and put -away with the remark that there was nothing in it. He was indeed more -than half blind, and the paper conveyed to him no information at all. - -It is needless to say that Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham obtained her divorce -in the American court, but that the English law, as was natural, took no -notice of that decree, and altogether refused to take Rhoda from her -father’s keeping. It is equally of course that from the moment when Mary -led him back into his own house, there could be no question of secluding -him any more. He was as sane as he had ever been, understanding -everything that was kind and friendly, not wise nor yet abundant in -speech, which would have been out of nature. The poor relation, who was -only Mary, and the poor parson whom she had married, protected his -gentle weakness, and John Prescott, with his patient yet half-tragic -face, his almost sightless eyes, and his little story of undeserved -wrong, wrong of which even now he was barely conscious, opining that his -wife had only gone to visit her relations and meant no harm, made a -great impression upon the Commissioners in Lunacy who examined him, and -pronounced in his favour authoritatively, adding however a gentle -recommendation that in view of his yielding character he should have -some relation to stay with and to take care of him. This condition was -fulfilled by the return of his sister Anna from India, widowed, shortly -after, and thus everything was set right. - -Hetty took no harm from that attack, which might have been shortened or -even averted if any one had been as bold as her mother. Mr. Darrell was -of opinion that she required very careful watching for a long -time--watching which the young man was too willing to give. He remained -in the position of the family doctor for some time after for this cause, -in his anxiety about Hetty’s health: and as soon as her parents consider -her old enough there is little doubt that he will get his reward. - -John Prescott was left poor when his wife, baffled yet emancipated, took -away her money, as when the negotiations were all over she was at -liberty to do--but without the child, who clung to him, and would not -hear a word said of her mother. He was left quite poor, poorer even than -the Prescotts had been in Mary’s early days. But yet there was something -in Cousin John’s power. One morning, about a year after, the post -brought news of the death of the Rev. Hugh Prescott, the rector of -Horton, in one of the villages of the Riviera where he had lived so -long. In strict justice the appointment ought to have gone to the old -clergyman who had officiated as his _locum tenens_ for a dozen years. -But when was strict justice ever regarded in this world? John would -receive no council on this matter. He had been pronounced able to manage -his own affairs, and in this one point at least he was determined to do -so. He tried, in his blindness to write a letter to Mary with his own -hands offering the Rectory to her husband. The letter was illegible, but -the purpose was carried out, and thus Mary returned with all her -children to the home of her youth. - -“Don’t speak of it, Miss Hetty; don’t speak of it,” said the old -clergyman. “If you think I know so little of the world as to believe -that the claims of pure justice, as you call it, could ever stand -against the claims of the Squire’s cousin-- But your father is a good -man, and you and your mother have been the saving of the Prescotts, and -I don’t grudge it, though perhaps it is a little hard upon me.” - -Everything that is good for one is a little hard perhaps for some one -else--or almost everything. Mary thinks sometimes that it is a little -hard upon Mrs. Rotherham, once Prescott, to be deprived of her only -child; but then, when a woman cannot put up with a dull husband, which -is so much less a matter than many other matrimonial burdens, what can -she expect? And on the whole, no doubt everything is for the best. - - -_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cousin Mary, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN MARY *** - -***** This file should be named 63302-0.txt or 63302-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/3/0/63302/ - -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: Cousin Mary - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: September 26, 2020 [EBook #63302] -[Last updated: June 21, 2022] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN MARY *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="550" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /> -</div> - -<h1>COUSIN MARY</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<span class="smcap">Mrs.</span> OLIPHANT<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.</small><br /><br /><br /> -<i>THIRD EDITION</i><br /><br /><br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.<br /> -8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c">COUSIN MARY</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/frontispiece.jpg"> -<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="363" height="562" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>“BY-AND-BY IT CAME TO PASS THAT THESE TWO MET... IN THE -COTTAGES” (<i>p. 36</i>).</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_005.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_005.jpg" width="360" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td><small>CHAP.</small></td><td> </td> -<td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">ONLY MARY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_7">7</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">ONLY THE CURATE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_19">19</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">THE TWO TOGETHER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_31">31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">MARY’S LITTLE THOUGHTS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_44">44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">SELF-BETRAYED</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_58">58</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">PARADISE LANE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_73">73</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">THE DISCLOSURE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_88">88</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">NEVERTHELESS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_103">103</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">“HAPPY EVER AFTER”</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_118">118</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">THE LIGHT OF COMMON DAY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_133">133</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">THE FIRST CHANGE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">THE ELDEST CHILD</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">A CONFERENCE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_178">178</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">GOING AWAY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_193">193</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">FIRESIDE TALK</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_211">211</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">ALARMS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">SHUTTING UP</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_244">244</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">“LET ME GO HOME”</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_260">260</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_273">273</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">A MIDNIGHT VISITOR</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_289">289</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">AN INNOCENT SUFFERER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_304">304</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">MARY’S INVESTIGATIONS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_321">321</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">THE SICK ROOM</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_337">337</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">THE INVALID GENTLEMAN</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_353">353</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">THE RESTORATION</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_369">369</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_006.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_006.jpg" width="109" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> </p> - -<h1><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_007.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_007.jpg" width="296" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />COUSIN MARY.</h1> - -<h2>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>ONLY MARY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE Prescotts of Horton had been a powerful family in their day. Their -house still was more in accordance with their past greatness than with -the mediocrity of their fortune at the period of their history which has -first to be indicated to the reader. They were no longer in the first -rank in their county, but had settled down by degrees without any great -fall, into the position of ordinary squires: that is to say, their fall -had happened a hundred and fifty years before, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> the time of that -unhappy attempt to subvert the government established by the Revolution, -which is known as the “Fifteen.” The Prescott of that period had joined -the rebellion, if rebellion it could be called, and had escaped with his -life at its disastrous conclusion. His son had secured a portion of the -family belongings, but never had been able to regain the wealth or the -position of his forefathers; and since then the family had remained -humble but proud, thinking a great deal of themselves, but not thought -quite so much of by their neighbours—a family not clever, nor any way -distinguished, yet furnishing its quota of stout soldiers and -respectable clergymen, with now and then a lawyer or two, to the service -of the state.</p> - -<p>The elder brother, the Squire, had been generally a dullish, goodish -sort of man, doing his duty fairly well, fairly kind to his younger -brothers and sisters, keeping up the ancestral house as well as he could -on means not great enough for any splendour, and giving more or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> less a -home to the scattered members of his family. The great advantage of -those much abused laws of primogeniture, entail, or whatever else they -may be which fix the succession in one member of a family, is this—that -they are far more apt to keep up a central point, a family home, than -any other arrangement yet discovered. When all share alike, no one has -any particular claim upon the others, and ancestral homes, like all -other primitive regulations for preserving the sacred nucleus of the -family, cease to be.</p> - -<p>The younger Prescott brothers went off to seek their fortunes in every -generation; the elder always kept up the house. It depended upon his -character, and perhaps still more on that of his wife, whether this home -was or was not a kindly one, but still it was always there; a possible -shelter in all circumstances, a perpetual court of appeal against the -injustices of the world.</p> - -<p>I have not space enough here to describe the old house, which was much -too great for the income and pretensions of the present occupant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> It -was a great house, partly Elizabethan, with additions in later days, -with two great wings, in one of which was a fine portrait gallery, while -the other contained the show apartments of the house, a suite of rooms -which were quite worthy to have been occupied by a king, though fact -compels us to add that royalty had made but a very slight use of them. -King Charles, in one of his hasty rides in the midst of his troubled -career, had paused to eat a morsel in the hall, and to wash his royal -hands in a dressing-room. This was all, but it was something, and the -rooms were beautiful with their faded furniture and heavy old hangings -and tapestries, and chairs covered with embroidered work. All this was -very much faded, and kept with difficulty from falling to pieces; but it -was very imposing, and strangers came from all quarters to see the -house. The pictures in the gallery were all portraits now, though it was -a tradition that there had once been several old Masters which were sold -in the troubles, but of which the frames still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> remained, blankly filled -up by pieces of old brocade, in themselves a sight to see. Some even of -the portraits, especially those which had been painted by famous -masters, had disappeared too, so that the importance of the gallery in -point of art was small.</p> - -<p>These remains of glory past were separate from the living part of the -house. They were kept in order, and shown to strangers, a point of -family pride which every Prescott held to be essential. But the existing -Prescotts lived in the centre part of the house, which was too large for -them, with its great hall and the other beautiful rooms, so airy and -spacious, which were the creation of a generation which did not fear -expense and loved space. The fine wainscoted room which was used as the -dining-room in modern days, accommodated thirty people easily at dinner, -whereas the Prescotts numbered but six, and seldom had company. The -drawing-room was still larger, with noble broad bay windows, each as big -as a modern room. To furnish all this, it may be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> supposed, was no -trifle; and the furniture was shabby; what was old, faded; what was new, -not half good enough for the natural splendour of the place. -Nevertheless, new and old together harmonised somehow by mere use and -wont, and the general appearance was that of a mingled humility and -pride, like the character of the family, which thought such great things -of itself and yet was able to do only little things and occupy a small -position in the world.</p> - -<p>This family consisted of six persons, as has been said—the Squire and -his wife; the eldest son, who was very far from clever, who was, indeed, -sometimes considered to be “not all there,” a mild, long young man, with -an elongated, melancholy visage, not unlike that of the tragic monarch -whose passing visit had given a historical association to the house. His -name was not a romantic one; it was plain John, according to the habit -of the house. He was very mild in all his tastes; good so far as a -person, so neutral-tinted could be called good;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> kind, disturbing -nobody, ready to do almost anything that was asked of him, so long as it -was asked with due regard to his dignity—but as thoroughly aware of his -importance as a Prescott, and the eldest son, as if he had possessed all -the brains of the house. Then there were two sisters, no longer very -young, but who had not yet renounced the <i>rôle</i> of youth, and who were -always called “the girls,” according to general family usage.</p> - -<p>Last of all was Percival, the soldier, the youngest, the prodigal, the -spendthrift, the clever one, the beloved of the house. All these names -do not mean that there was anything bad about Percy—quite the reverse. -His gaiety made the house bright, his laugh rang through all the great -rooms and woke cheerful echoes. Money trickled through his fingers he -could not tell how, but he did no particular harm with it. The worst was -that he was generally away from home with his regiment, and when he came -home, though it was a delight to look forward to, and did everybody -good, Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> Prescott was always awfully conscious that for this happiness -there would certainly be a good deal to pay. “That is all very well, my -dear,” he would say to his wife, “so long as I live: but when John is -master poor Percy will find out the difference.” “Ah, John!” Mrs. -Prescott would answer, with a sigh, wondering in her heart who John’s -wife would be, thinking what a good thing it would be if he were not to -marry, feeling sure that whoever married him would be the future ruler -of Horton. That was the danger that lay in her gallant Percy’s way.</p> - -<p>This accounts for five people, and I have said there were six. The last -was only Mary. The other members of the family would have thought it -quite unnecessary to give any further description of her. She was the -one who did all manner of little errands in the house, and little -offices. She arranged the flowers; if Anna wanted something upstairs it -was Mary who ran to fetch it; if Sophie left anything in the garden, or -on one of the tables in the hall, Mary always knew where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> to find it. -She fetched Mr. Prescott the newspaper he had left about, and found her -aunt’s spectacles, and got John his hat, which he always forgot when he -was going out. When Percy was at home she did all sorts of commissions -for him; even the old housekeeper gave her messages and things to carry. -“Just put this in the drawing-room, Miss Mary, my dear,” or, “Will you -take these books to Miss Anna?” was what Mrs. Beesly said half-a-dozen -times a day. They meant no harm whatever, and did not oppress her, or -ill-use her, or neglect her, or do any of the things which are supposed -to be done to a little dependent orphan in her uncle’s house. Perhaps -they may have been said to have neglected her, but not of any evil -intent.</p> - -<p>They meant no harm; she was only Mary: there was no particular reason -that anybody knew of for thinking of her, or putting anybody out of -their way on her account. She was a child in the opinion of all the -others, even of “the girls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>” She was not included in that term. She was -not even advanced to the rank of one of the girls. She was only Mary. -She had never been whipped, or scolded, or put in dark closets, or set -to hard tasks all her life. It is true that Anna’s and Sophie’s old -dresses were very often “made down” for her: but that would have -happened all the same had she been Anna’s and Sophie’s sister. Her life -was happy enough; she had a share of everything that was going; and it -never had occurred to her that she should be made of any particular -account.</p> - -<p>In her own mind, as well as in the conviction of the whole household, -she was only Mary. She was a quiet little thing, but always cheerful, -ready to talk when any one wanted to talk, or to play her little pieces -when asked for them, or to be silent like a little mouse when there was -no need for such vanities. She took herself as easily as the others took -her, making no sort of pretension. Nor did she feel wronged, or -offended, or slighted, as some might have done. She was only Mary,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> not -Miss Prescott of Horton, as both the girls were. She was not even a -Prescott, only a sister’s daughter, an unconsidered trifle in the -feminine line. Her whole life was pitched in this minor key, but it was -not at all an unhappy little life at her age, for she was barely twenty. -It had not yet begun to matter very much that she was a first object to -nobody. As a matter of fact, everything was perfectly natural about her, -and she had never found that things might be brighter, or that she -really had any aspiration after a more individual life.</p> - -<p>She had an uncle at the Rectory as well as at the Hall, but there were -no young people in the clerical house. This was how things stood with -the Prescotts and Mary Burnet, when the new curate arrived, of whom -Uncle Hugh at the Rectory had heard so very good an account. Uncle Hugh -was a very conscientious clergyman. He liked to keep the parish in -thoroughly good working order, but if truth must be told he preferred -that some one else should do the work for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> him. He had the very best -recommendations with the new curate. He was hard-working, he was -moderate, not too much of a ritualist, and yet a very good Churchman, -and a man who socially took nothing upon him; a retiring, modest young -man. The Rector was most fortunate in getting a curate like Mr. Asquith, -everybody said.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_018.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_018.jpg" height="225" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_019.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_019.jpg" width="287" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>ONLY THE CURATE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> CURATE is a very useful member of the Church militant. He is the stuff -out of which all its more dignified functionaries are made; and he does -a great deal of the hard work, with a very limited proportion of the -pay. But notwithstanding all this, he has a great deal to put up with in -the way of snubs from his superiors, and indifference from the public, -who accept his services often without prizing them very much. He has -compensation in his youth, which makes him acceptable to the younger and -fairer portion of the flock, and in his hopes of better things, as well -as, no doubt, to leave pleasantry apart, in the satisfaction of -performing important duties, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> doing the sacred work to which he has -dedicated himself.</p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith, the new curate at Horton, had, however, but few of the -compensations. There was a very small number of young ladies in the -parish, and he was a young man who did not give himself to croquet or -archery, or any of the gentle games then in vogue; for the period of -which I speak was before the invention of lawn tennis. To none of these -things did he incline. He was ready to tramp along the country roads in -dust or in mud to carry consolation to any poor sick-bed. He was never -tired with examining schools, catechizing children, conducting little -cottage services; for those were the days when a high ritual was -unusual, and daily prayers were rare in the churches. He would even -interest himself in the village cricket, if need was, though awkwardly, -and not in a way which impressed the rustic eleven. As for the minor -organisations of the parish, the savings-banks, the clothing clubs, the -lending library, they had no existence until he came.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p>The Rector frankly thought them quiet unnecessary; and Mrs. Prescott was -of opinion that to set them a-going was a dangerous thing, and might put -such a burden upon the next curate who should succeed Mr. Asquith as -that problematical individual might not care to bear; and of course, she -added, nobody could expect the Rector himself to be charged with the -fatigue of keeping all these new-fangled institutions up.</p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith paid little attention to these remonstrances. So long as he -had permission to do what he thought right, even if it were only a -formal permission, he was satisfied: and he went on working among his -poor people, with the greatest indifference to any of those solaces, in -the way of society and the making of friends, which are generally -supposed to sweeten the lot of his class. He said “Bother!” when he was -told that he was expected to be on certain occasions a guest at the -Rectory; and he said “What a bore!” when he was invited to dine at the -Hall. None of these delights tempted him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> When John Prescott called on -him, as in duty bound, he found the curate busy among calculations, -planning out one of those village charities which were wanting in -Horton, and rather abstracted and preoccupied—dull, John said, who was -himself the dullest of men.</p> - -<p>“I said we might perhaps let him have a day’s thooting now and again,” -said John, who lisped a little.</p> - -<p>“And what did he say to that?” said Anna; for indeed the girls were -rather interested, and wanted to know what sort of person the new curate -was.</p> - -<p>“He thook his head,” said John; “and so he did when I asked if he was -fond of croquet. And then I thaid, was he musical?”</p> - -<p>“I hope he is musical,” said Sophie, “a violin would be such an -addition. What did he say when you asked him that?”</p> - -<p>“He thook his head again,” answered John.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a horrid man!”</p> - -<p>“No, he’s not a horrid man; he’s a good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> fellow; but he’th dull—he’th -dull,” said John, with emphasis; it was when he wanted to be emphatic -that he lisped most. And as John was very dull himself, the sisters -concluded, not unreasonably, that the man in whom he discovered that -quality must be dull indeed.</p> - -<p>Mary, who was in the room, listened with some curiosity, too, though she -took no part in the conversation; and she was much amused to think that -in the world, and even in the parish, there could thus be a duller man -than John. Not that she was contemptuous of John for his dulness. She -liked him almost the best of the family. He was tiresome, to be sure; if -you were thrown upon him for society, it would not be cheerful society; -but then you were never thrown upon John—there was always somebody else -to talk, and show a little interest. And that he was tiresome was the -worst that could be said of him. He never forced his dulness upon any -one, as some do. He never wanted to be talked to, or amused, or taken -any notice of. His temper was as even, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> grey atmosphere about -him as tranquil as heart could desire. He was not clever, but he never -gave any trouble, and he could even be very kind when it came into his -head.</p> - -<p>“Ah, well,” said Sophie, “it cannot be helped. A new man might have been -an acquisition. He might have taught us some of the new rules for -croquet, or he might have played a new instrument, or he might have -sung. But it’s clear, from what John says, that he’s only the curate, -and there’s nothing more to say.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Anna, “he must be asked to dinner all the same.”</p> - -<p>But though they did this only as a matter of duty, they would all have -been extremely astonished, not to say offended, had they known that he -said “What a bore!” on receiving the invitation. He was at that moment -very much occupied about all the new things that he was setting up, -altogether indifferent to the consideration that the next curate might -not be of his way of thinking and might feel it a burden. Mr. Asquith, -how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span>ever, never spoke of the possibility of a change, but seemed to -think that there never would be any other curate. He looked as though he -meant to go on forever bringing all his schemes to perfection. The -Rector could only afford to give him £100 a year and the use of the -cottage in which the curates always lived, with the very barest -furniture—merely what was necessary. But Mr. Asquith did not seem to -think either of the small stipend or the bare lodgings; he seemed only -to think of the work which he made so unnecessarily hard for himself. -And presently he was so absorbed in this work, and found so many things -to do, and set so many things going which nobody but himself took any -interest in, that he fell almost out of the knowledge of the more -important persons in the parish. They went their way, which was the -old-established, correct way for gentlefolks in a country parish to go, -in which they had gone long before he appeared, and would most likely go -long after he had disappeared; and he went his, which was novel and -new-fangled,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> and on the whole not a way approved of by the best people. -And though the parish was quite small, and you would have supposed that -all the educated persons belonging to the upper classes in it must have -jostled each other every day, the fact was that they went on in parallel -lines, as it were, without ever seeing each other.</p> - -<p>He went to the Rectory now and then, of course, as in duty bound, but -otherwise, when he was seen passing any of the chief houses in the -place, and a chance visitor asked who he was, “Oh, it is only the -curate,” was always the answer in Horton. This was really almost all -that any one knew of him.</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, the Rector knew more, and all the world might have -known what his antecedents were. He was a man from the North, the son of -one of those sturdy small proprietors who are called statesmen in -Cumberland, or were called so in former times—born upon his own -paternal acres in a house which had belonged to his family for -generations, and thus possessing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> many of the advantages of ancient -lineage, though his was not what is called gentle blood. He had won a -scholarship at Oxford, and had made his way through the university -without, however, gaining any of those social advantages which, in the -eyes of many people, are the chief recommendations of these homes of -learning. He had not “made friends.” He had settled himself to his work -there with the same gravity as at Horton, and thought the finest “wines” -and the best company a bore. His talents did not lie in that way. He had -no genius for acquaintance, and though he liked the river very well for -relaxation, he never could be persuaded to make a business of it, as the -boating men did, or, indeed, to “go in” for anything except his work. -And even in his work he was not brilliant. His college set no high hopes -on his head. He made his way quite quietly, unobserved, very much as he -did at Horton, through those groves of Academe, generally to be found -out of the crowd, in paths not much frequented, busy always, caring -very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> little for pleasures by the way. As he got on, he became a little -better known as having “coached” very effectually, but with little -demonstration, several dunces for their smalls, and one or two better -men for special subjects, especially theology: and so came through that -part of his life with little fame, but such as it was, very good. Such a -man leaves an impression, faint but lasting, and which is not dependent -upon known and proved facts. This, indeed, is what almost everybody does -one way or other. We don’t know any harm that the good-for-nothing may -have done, but we become aware by something in the air that he is a -good-for-nothing; and we may have no act of virtue to set against a -man’s name, yet know that he is a good man by instinct, by an atmosphere -about him, something like a moral taste of which we cannot explain the -cause.</p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith had this kind of reputation, if it can be called a -reputation. He was poor; he had very little, if anything, more than the -£100 a year which Mr. Prescott, the Rector, gave him. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> was accustomed -to spare living, and liked it, being unreasonably, and indeed wrongly, -indifferent to what he ate and drank, and quite unworthy of the good -cooking at the Rectory or the more pretentious efforts at the Hall. He -liked his own chop at home quite as well, even when he had, as was -sometimes necessary, to scrape off the cinders which it brought along -with it from the gridiron, before he ate it. Mr. Asquith thought this -was a very natural accident, and did not complain.</p> - -<p>Such a man is the only man altogether independent in our complicated -social system. He never remarked the ugly Kidderminster under his feet, -or wished for a Persian rug in its place. He did not mind in the least -when his clerical coat got shabby. What did it matter? Everybody knew -him on the one hand—nobody knew him on the other. In either case he was -indifferent, and consequently independent. If there was anything he was -a little particular over, it was his washing, his landlady said. The -landlady was an old servant at the Rectory, who had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> provided for -in this curate’s house, and who knew the ways of the kind. But she had -never met with any like Mr. Asquith—no one who gave so little trouble, -or was so easily satisfied.</p> - -<p>But he was only the curate. Such qualities as his make little show. And -after a while the Prescotts almost forgot that there was such a person -in their neighbourhood. They said “How do you do, Mr. Asquith?” when -they met him at the Rectory or on the road; but after they had done -their duty by him, and asked him twice (which was really a superfluity -of attention), he dropped into his own sphere, and save at Uncle Hugh’s, -or in church, by accident, was seen of them no more.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_030.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_030.jpg" width="93" height="148" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_031.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_031.jpg" width="366" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>THE TWO TOGETHER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE dinners at the Hall had not, however, been entirely without fruit in -the lives of the two inconsiderable people who first met there. Mary, it -may be supposed, had regarded with a little interest the appearance of -the stranger, who was quite a new thing in her life. Few strangers came -at Horton even when Percy was at home, and Percy had not been at home -since Mary had finally developed into a young woman, and been permitted -to wear a long frock and put up her hair; so that she had no -acquaintance with new faces, and the appearance of an individual -unknown, even though he was only the curate, aroused the liveliest -interest and curiosity in her. He was not a handsome man, but he had the -air of having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> a will and meaning of his own which is always attractive -to a woman, even though he did not sing, nor play upon any instrument, -nor know any games to speak of. These deficiencies did not affect Mary, -who only played a little upon the piano, and though she was constantly -called upon to make up her uncle’s rubber, and had in consequence a very -fair proficiency in whist, was not fond of games. Thus the remarks which -were made upon Mr. Asquith afterwards were, Mary thought, so unjust so -far beyond the measure of his delinquencies, even if he were a -delinquent, that in her thoughts she immediately constituted herself his -champion. In her thoughts, and a little in words too; she ventured to -say: “I don’t think he looks stupid at all,” when Anna and Sophie, after -the second entertainment to which he had been invited, broke forth -simultaneously into the outcry, “Oh, what a stupid man!” The sound of -this small voice, so unexpected, confounded the girls. They looked at -her in amazement, and then they laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_033.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_033.jpg" width="555" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>HERE IS MARY SETTING UP TO HAVE AN OPINION’<span class="lftspc">”</span> (<i>p. -35</i>).</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Why, here is a Daniel come to judgment,” cried Sophie, and “Here is -Mary setting up to have an opinion,” said Anna. It was the most amusing -thing that had happened for a long time.</p> - -<p>“Well, why shouldn’t Mary have an opinion?” said her uncle, “and about -the curate, too, which is a subject young ladies are always supposed to -understand.”</p> - -<p>“Mary must not trouble her head about curates,” said Mrs. Prescott. “She -is a great deal too young for any nonsense of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“Fancy calling Mr. Asquith nonsense!” cried both the girls again, with a -burst of laughter. They were not in the least interested, so that Mary’s -interference only amused them. If she had made herself the champion of a -more eligible visitor, Sophie and Anna might not perhaps have taken it -nearly so well.</p> - -<p>“He doesn’t look stupid, and there is no nonsense about him, and I think -he is very nice,” said Mary, but she was at that moment putting away her -work, and spoke very low,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> almost to herself, and nobody paid any -attention. She felt, however, a little excited at having thus, as it -were, taken up her position and declared her sentiments. She felt like -the champion of an injured but noble man—the defender of the -unfortunate. This gives a sense of generosity, of fine elation to the -mind. It seemed to Mary as if she were herself less insignificant in -being thus the champion of another. And it gave her an interest in Mr. -Asquith, which was entirely disinterested, but yet was akin, perhaps, to -a sentiment more warm, of which as yet Mary had never thought even in -her most romantic dreams.</p> - -<p>And by-and-by it came to pass that these two met not unfrequently upon -the roads, and sometimes in the cottages where Mary was often a visitor. -She went there sometimes on charitable errands, and sometimes from mere -kindness and liking for the good people, whom she had known all her -life. The charity was not Mary’s charity, it need hardly be said, for -she had nothing of her own to give. Mrs. Prescott was not rich nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> very -interesting, nor a woman who talked much on any subject, especially upon -that of the poor and their claims: but she had a kind heart. When there -was a very nice pudding at luncheon, she almost always remembered that -poor Sally Williams, who was in “a deep decline,” and had no appetite, -might be tempted by a bit of it, or if the chicken was very tender, she -felt sure that old John Price, who had lost his teeth, or Mrs. Sims at -the almshouses, would like it. “I will just put this nice little piece -in a dish, and you will run down to the village with it, Mary,” she -would say, “as soon as you have finished, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“But why should Mary go?” some one remarked, at least three days out of -five.</p> - -<p>“She never has time to finish her luncheon,” said Mr. Prescott, who -loved a good meal.</p> - -<p>“And why can’t you send Pierce, mamma? I am sure she has always plenty -of time for her dinner, and never hurries for any one.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dears,” said kind Mrs. Prescott, “it tastes so much better when -one of the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> ladies takes it. Pierce would only go because she was -obliged to go, and perhaps she would think it a bore, and fling it at -them, so to speak.”</p> - -<p>“I darethay Mary findth it a bore, too,” said John.</p> - -<p>“Oh, never!” Mary would say. She was not one who cared to spend a great -deal of time at table; and as soon as her aunt rose she was ready with -her basket. She went so lightly skimming down the long shady avenue, -like a bird or a fawn—but no—like nothing in the world, but a nice -little happy-hearted, light-footed girl, conscious of going on an errand -that would give pleasure, which is one of the sweetest, pleasantest, and -fairest of sights to be seen in the world. She liked the errand dearly; -she liked the little start of agreeable anticipation with which she was -received (though her appearance could scarcely be said to be unexpected, -it was so frequent), and the smile with which the invalid would greet -her, and that delightful consciousness that it tasted sweeter from her -kind little friendly hands than if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> Pierce had bounced in and thumped -the basket down on the table, and taken no pains about it. Pierce did -not always do this, but was kind, too, in her way. But nobody is quite -just in their estimate of others, and this was what Mary thought.</p> - -<p>And as often as not, Mr. Asquith would meet her on the way—sometimes as -she was going, sometimes coming; sometimes in the cottages, sometimes as -she came out smiling, with her empty basket. Of course Mr. Asquith gave -all the credit of what was in reality Mrs. Prescott’s kindness to her -little niece. He thought this practical little girl, with her basket, -acted on her own impulse, and that it was altogether out of the -tenderness of her own heart that she remembered the little fancies of -the sick. Most likely he thought that these little delicacies were saved -from her own share of the good things at the Hall, and never made -account of Mrs. Prescott at all in the matter; for nobody is quite just, -as has been said, and Mrs. Prescott was stout and entirely -unin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span>teresting, and her under lip projected a little, so that people -sometimes thought her cross and sometimes sulky. But Mary was as bright -as the day, and the village people were all fond of her. “Oh, come in, -sir,” they said at first, when he lingered at the door, seeing a lady in -the room. “I will come again another day, Mrs. Williams, for I see you -have a visitor already.” “Oh, bless you, sir, come in, come in; why it’s -only Miss Mary,” the good woman would say, laughing with amused surprise -at the thought that on such a consideration the curate should be shy and -hold back.</p> - -<p>And in this way many meetings came about without either of the two being -aware that they were becoming used to seeing each other, and that a -little anticipation of this personal pleasure began to mingle with the -kindness of their original motives.</p> - -<p>When Mr. Asquith made the discovery that it was so, great discouragement -fell upon his mind, such as had never moved it before. For nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> of -the kind had ever before come in his hard-working way. What was Miss -Mary to him, or Miss anything? He was a poor man, far too poor to marry. -It had never occurred to him to think of his poverty before. Indeed, he -was not poor, for he had few wants, and could always do very well with -what he had; and he had never intended to marry, or thought of marrying. -He might even, indeed—it was very likely, have said some things in his -day about the iniquity of marrying when you have no means of supporting -a wife, much less children, and when in all likelihood you are betraying -some foolish girl who knows nothing of the world into lifelong penury, -labour, and privation.</p> - -<p>When he came to think of it, he felt sure that he had said many such -things: and was it possible that he was so lost to every sense of duty, -so forgetful of principle as to let himself fall into temptation in this -way, and probably, possibly—a thought which made his grave face -glow—lead another, another!—a young creature born to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> better fortune, -almost a child—into the same snare? To describe the state of agitation -into which the young man was brought by this sudden flash of perception -is not easy—the sweetness of it, the misery of it, the keen, poignant, -sharply-stinging delight. For though it was pain, it was delight, too. -To be able to make her love him, that sweet little girl, Mary!</p> - -<p>The world is hard, and it is bitter to give up, and to put a stop to -that rising current of new life is enough to tax all a man’s powers. But -when you have said everything that can be said in that respect, there -still remains the fact that the curate had, in one flash of -consciousness, a moment of delight which nobody could take from him. He -had tasted the sweetness, though the cup might not be for him; and then -he fell headlong into the bitter depths below.</p> - -<p>There must be no more of it, he said to himself, no more! And the first -thing he did was to shut himself up, to take to his books, to give up -his visiting; he would not even walk out for exercise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> save in the -evening, when he was sure he could not meet her? Sacrifice her because -he loved her? Oh no, never; such a thing could not be; but to sacrifice -himself, that was not so hard; he thought he could do that. Therefore he -departed from all his good ways as a parish priest, saying to himself -that it was only for a time, and praying God to pardon that temporary -neglect of duty because of the other more urgent duty which he must, he -must carry out, at whatever cost that might be.</p> - -<p>And Mary meantime had her own little thoughts, which nobody made much -account of, and which at the present moment nobody suspected. But what -those thoughts were wants a longer space than the end of this chapter to -say.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_043.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_043.jpg" width="155" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_044.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_044.jpg" width="365" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>MARY’S LITTLE THOUGHTS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>ARY’S mind was supposed to be very youthful and unformed. She had been -kept longer a child than is usual, and yet, by reason of a sort of -solitude in which she lived in the midst of a family which was, yet was -not, absolutely her own family, her thoughts had exercised themselves -silently on many subjects not commonly considered by children; but all -in a shy and voiceless way, so that nobody round her had any conception -of many reasonings which had gone on in her mind. When Mr. Asquith came -to Horton she had been very curious about him, and when he failed to -interest the rest, he became still more a curiosity and interest to -Mary.</p> - -<p>Among the subjects which occupied her silent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> thoughts there had been -many little questions about the clergymen and their ways. As a matter of -fact clergymen were more frequent visitors at Horton than any other -class of men, and Mary had secretly been a critic of them all her life. -Her Uncle Hugh was a clergyman whom she saw perpetually. He was a parish -priest, with not very much to do, and one who was fully convinced that -he did his duty. But Mary was not equally convinced. There was a good -deal in his life which did not seem to that little critic to be much in -harmony with what she read in her New Testament. To be sure, she knew -well enough that every man who is in the Church can’t go wandering about -the world like St. Paul, teaching and preaching to the heathen.</p> - -<p>Mary was aware that the change of times must be taken into account, and -that the steady work of a parish has to be considered as well as the -romance of missionary devotion. But she could not quite reconcile Uncle -Hugh to the standard in which she believed, even after everything was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> -taken into account. He was too comfortable, too much at his ease, had -more spare time than he ought to have had, and, indeed, altogether was -too like Uncle John, who was the merely secular head of the family, than -satisfied the rigorous ideal of youth. There was indeed very little -difference between Uncle Hugh and Uncle John. The elder brother sat in a -little room which was called his business-room, whereas the special -retirement of the other was spoken of as the study: and the parson wore -a white tie instead of the cosy checked one which generally enveloped -the throat of the Squire, and a black coat instead of a shooting-jacket; -but during the week these were the chief differences between them. Mary, -all silent in the background, not considered by anybody to have an -opinion at all, arraigned these two before her private tribunal, and was -not satisfied, and concluded that there should have been a great deal -more difference. To be sure, on Sunday there was difference enough. -Uncle Hugh in his surplice was a commanding figure, and he preached<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> -while Uncle John yawned and listened. He was not a very good preacher.</p> - -<p>None of these things are hid from the inexorable little judges from -seven to seventeen, who give us all our due. In her heart, though she -was fond of him, she was not satisfied with Uncle Hugh as a clergyman. -His bishop was very well satisfied, but not Mary. And the curates were -still less satisfactory. The High Church development was only in its -beginning in those days, and curates made little or no pretensions to -sacerdotal superiority, but were just young men in the Church, as their -brothers were young men in the army. They were very good-natured young -fellows most of them, very willing to give a shilling or even -half-a-crown to poor old Hodge—not quite so willing to administer -spiritual consolation or pray by his bedside—yet, by the aid of the -service for the visitation of the sick, getting manfully through that -too, and then, with a sigh of relief, coming up to croquet at the Hall. -They had always time for croquet, and took enormously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> long walks, and -had a considerable difficulty in getting through the long days in a dull -little place where, as they would sometimes complain, there was nothing -to do. Most of the young men who had been curates to Mr. Prescott of -Horton Rectory, left him with the best of recommendations; but little -Mary, that little Rhadamantha, had them all up at the bar before her, -and judged them severely, though she never said a word.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Asquith was something altogether new, and of a different order -of being. When John said he was dull, and the girls that there was -nothing in him, Mary demurred, as has been seen. She said to herself -that Mr. Asquith was nice, and she liked the looks of him; and having -thus, as it were, given herself from the first a brief in his defence, -it was not so easy to put on the judge’s cap and pronounce the verdict. -Something, perhaps, from the beginning softened that judgment. She -expected, to start with, that he would be different: and he was -different. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> dinners at the Hall bored him, which was a pity; and he -would have none of the croquet, and instead of complaining that there -was nothing to do, his excuse was that he had not time enough for the -amusements which the young people of the parish set such store by. He -had not time. The other curates had not known what to do with their -time. Certainly he was different.</p> - -<p>And then Mary had begun to meet him about in all the cottages where -there were sick people, where there was special need of kindness and -help. He did not give away shillings, except rarely, for he had very few -to give. He was not a young man on his promotion, waiting till the -family living should be vacant, or till somebody should give him a -benefice, but had thrown himself into his work as if he never meant to -go away. Mary made some small investigations on this point in the most -innocent and natural way. She said to the Rector, “Uncle Hugh, I suppose -Mr. Asquith is going to stay longer than the other curates,” at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> a -moment when Mr. Prescott was unoccupied, and had time to answer the -question.</p> - -<p>“Eh?” cried the Rector, “Asquith stay longer? What makes you think so?”</p> - -<p>“He talks as if he were always to be here,” said Mary.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do you think so? This little girl is not such a fool as she looks,” -said his reverence. “I’ve noticed that too.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to Mary so,” said Mrs. Hugh Prescott, who was somewhat -matter of fact. “She is not a fool at all, oh no; she has a great deal -of observation. But Mr. Asquith had better not deceive himself, Hugh, -for you know you have always liked a change of curates. Perhaps I had -better say a word——”</p> - -<p>The Rector’s wife was fond of saying a word, which generally made the -person addressed very angry, though she had no such meaning. Her husband -stopped her with a movement of his hand. “Don’t, my dear,” he said. “It -is not that he thinks too much of himself. He has not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> the prospects of -the other young men. He is not serving his apprenticeship here with the -hope of soon setting up for himself.”</p> - -<p>“You speak of the Church as if it were a trade, Hugh.”</p> - -<p>“Do I, my dear? Well, perhaps it is something the same after all, if you -think of it—for most people are looking out for something better. I -should not mind being a canon or a prebendary myself, or even a dean.”</p> - -<p>“And is not Mr. Asquith looking out for something better?” said Mary. -She was more interested in this question than in any other that could at -the moment be presented to her.</p> - -<p>“Poor fellow! I don’t know that he has anything better to look for,” -said the Rector. “He has few friends, and nobody to push him. I should -not wonder if he remained a curate all his life.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody does that nowadays,” said Mrs. Hugh Prescott. “Something always -turns up. A poor clergyman, so far as I can see, has just as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> many -chances as one that is well off. He is kind to somebody’s child, or -attends somebody’s mother on her deathbed, or something of that sort. -There is a special providence for poor curates, I think.”</p> - -<p>Mary took in all this with quick ears, and asked herself, whether, in -reality, a special providence was all that Mr. Asquith had to look to. -“There is none other that fighteth for us, but only Thou, O God,” we say -in church day by day: but even that pious sentiment seems to convey a -veiled opinion that other aid would be desirable: but when it is said of -a man that a special providence is wanted for his promotion, that man’s -hopes do not, to most of the world, seem particularly well founded. Mary -felt with a curious swelling of her heart that she was glad this was the -case with Mr. Asquith. She was proud of it, if pride is possible in such -a matter. When she tested him by the first great commission which sent -men out to preach without even bread in their scrip, much less money in -their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> purse—that test which no one had borne as yet—she felt that at -last here was one who could bear it; and this gave Mary a degree of -pleasure quite incommensurate with his stay in the parish, or of any -possible knowledge he could have of her, or she of him. After all she -had nothing at all to do with it; and what were his principles of -action, or how he was moved by the absence of all means of advancing -himself, she had not the least way of knowing. It might be this that -made him what John called dull. Mary could not tell. But she felt in her -heart, though she was so ignorant, that the real clergyman for whom she -had been looking had appeared at last—the only one who could bear the -test which had not succeeded at all with the rest of the curates, nor -even Uncle Hugh.</p> - -<p>And this was the conclusion which had been formed in her mind even -before she began to meet Mr. Asquith in the cottages. She was keenly -alive to his demeanour there. It was as if she had gone to collect -evidence upon this subject. When she was giving poor Sally Williams her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> -pudding, she was at the same moment mentally weighing the curate and his -manners to poor Mrs. Williams, and making him out. Perhaps Mary was not -quite an impartial judge, being biassed, as has been said, by the other -pieces of evidence which she had already put together, and even by -something more subtle still, by her own foregone conclusion, and certain -weakening prepossessions that had stolen into her heart. But about the -time when Mr. Asquith took fright and began to shut himself up and -relinquish his visits to the cottages, Mary had completed all her -investigations, or had forgotten them, or had come to think them the -most unnecessary, the most impertinent of inquiries, having somehow -suddenly and unconsciously been led to the conclusion that there was -nobody like Mr. Asquith, and that whatever he did became, from the fact -of his doing it, right. It gave all the more weight to her opinion in -this respect that she was not, as has been seen, a girl who naturally -believed in curates, or took the excellence of that class for granted, -as some young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> women do. It was, however, a somewhat severe test of -Mary’s faith that almost simultaneously with her full conviction of it, -this perfect man should suddenly begin to conduct himself in so strange -a way. For she could not help being struck by the fact that she met him -no longer, even had the poor people been silent on the subject, which -they were not. They poured out their complaints to her, sometimes quite -simply, sometimes with a little mischievous meaning. “Mr. Asquith? We -haven’t seen Mr. Asquith, no—not for ten days; him as used to come in -and give my poor Sally a comfor’able word ’most every day. I don’t know -what’s the cause. I only hope, Miss Mary, as we’ve done nothing to -offend him. It ain’t with our will if we has, for a kinder gentleman -never come inside my door.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Mrs. Williams, I am sure he would not take offence. Perhaps he -is very busy; you know a clergyman—has to study a great deal,” said -Mary, pausing to pick up the first excuse that came handy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Williams shook her head. “If it had been most clergymen,” she said, -“I shouldn’t have wondered, for they soon tires—but Mr. Asquith! oh, he -did seem another sort, he did!” the poor woman cried.</p> - -<p>And then old Mrs. Sims at the almshouses had her little word to put in: -“I can’t think what’s come over Mr. Asquith, that was such a kind -gentleman. He’s not come no more since the last time as he met you here, -Miss Mary. It couldn’t be as a fine, tall gentleman like ’im was afraid -of you.”</p> - -<p>“Why should anyone be afraid of me?” Mary cried, with a laugh. But she -was glad to get outside that keen-sighted old woman’s cottage, for she -felt the heat of a coming blush which swept all over her, up to the very -roots of her hair, a blush which sent all her blood coursing through her -veins, and made her feel disposed to laugh again, and then to cry. -Afraid of her! Why should any one, much less the curate, be afraid of -her, a little person who was only Mary, and whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> nobody made any -account of? But as she asked herself that question, Mary knew that it -was so. She knew with a sudden flash of discovery, which was very -wonderful and sweet, that Mr. Asquith was afraid of her, of loving her, -and of betraying he loved her; and that he was making a stand against -his heart and trying to avoid her, and put her out of his life. It was a -tremendous, overpowering discovery; but after she had got accustomed to -the thought, Mary once more laughed in her heart; for she knew by -instinct, though she had never had any experience, that these tactics -were never successful, and that in this endeavour Mr. Asquith would -fail.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_057.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_057.jpg" width="257" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_058.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_058.jpg" width="360" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>SELF-BETRAYED.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span>F course Mary proved right. In such a small parish as Horton it was -quite impossible that two people could live for many weeks without -meeting each other. The curate might shut himself up for a few days. He -might say he was busy with his sermon; he might say he had a headache; -he might acknowledge that his activity in the parish and all the -institutions he had set up had thrown him into arrears with his reading, -and such intellectual work as is necessary for a man who has to write -two sermons every week. But this could not last for ever. Mary, who was -so simple and so sweet, was not like those powers of darkness whom we -must resist till they flee from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> us; indeed, Mary was so far different -that when she was resisted she did not flee. She was so clever that she -divined at once that in resisting the charm of her mild society poor Mr. -Asquith had made a confession of his weakness, and it gave her a great -and, it is to be feared, a mischievous amusement to watch how long he -would keep to that. Alas! he could not keep to it very long. He was -obliged to go to the rectory to communicate with his chief, and he could -not help meeting Mary there. He had even to walk with her as far as the -lodge, to carry something that was too heavy for her, and then Mary -behaved very badly to the poor curate. She put on an air of sympathy to -conceal her amusement, and she said, “I am afraid you have not been well -lately, Mr. Asquith. I have not seen you anywhere about.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the curate, with his heart sinking, “I have been—not very -well.”</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry,” said the little hypocrite. “I hope you don’t find that -Horton does not suit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> you: and just when you have got so well into the -work.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is not that it doesn’t suit me,” the curate said, “quite the -reverse. The air is very pure and sweet.” He gave a side glance at her -as he spoke, and it is to be feared that it was Mary and not the air he -was thinking of when he used these words.</p> - -<p>“Poor Sally Williams is longing to see you,” said Mary. “I go often, but -I am not the same good. She likes her pudding, but I can’t talk to her -as you do, Mr. Asquith; and they say,” continued the girl, with a soft -shade of awe coming over her face, “that she has not very long to live.”</p> - -<p>“You teach me my duty,” cried the curate, quite overwhelmed. “I have -been very neglectful. I shall certainly not miss another day.”</p> - -<p>“And old Mrs. Sims thinks you have forgotten the old people at the -almshouses. She shakes her head and says, ‘Ah, I never thought as h<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span>e’d -keep it up like that: they never does,’ Mrs. Sims says.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you so much for telling me,” said Mr. Asquith; “indeed it was not -inadvertence. I knew that I was neglecting one duty: but I thought, -perhaps, it might be excusable on account of another.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Asquith!” cried Mary, “I never meant to say you neglected -anything, you must not think so. But ought a person to neglect one duty -on account of another? You said the other day in your sermon——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! don’t talk to me about my sermon. It was a poor performance off the -book, when I had no experience; but you are right, we have no warrant to -forget one duty for the sake of another. The part of a true man is to do -all, and not to flinch. The spirit is willing, but oh! the flesh is very -weak.”</p> - -<p>I hope the reader will not think badly of Mary if I allow that the -agitation of the curate filled her with a sort of elation and -mischievous triumph for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> the moment. She had nearly laughed in the face -of his gravity, and if she had done what was in her heart she would have -cried out, “All this bother about a little girl like me!” But she did -not say anything; she did not laugh; and when she looked up into his -face for a moment at the lodge-gate, when he gave the books he was -carrying for her to Mrs. Martingale, the coachman’s wife, to be sent up -to the house, Mary was filled with sudden compunctions, and felt -disposed rather to cry. She waved her hand to him as she went up the -avenue with an April sort of face, half smiling, half weeping, which -gave him a great deal of thought as he turned sadly upon his own way. He -did not know what it meant, poor young man! It looked as if she were -sorry for him, but why should she be sorry for him? Did she see, did she -understand, the cause of his trouble? did she mean to support him with -her sympathy, or to mock him, or to show him how far, far he was out of -her sphere? He thought a great deal more about this than was at all -con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span>sistent with the many other things he had to think of, and, alas! -got the books of the lending library entirely into disorder, and forgot -how much money he had received that week from the penny-bank and the -clothing-club. He put down twice as much as they had paid to each -subscriber’s name, and had to make it up from his own poor little purse; -fortunately the entire amount was not considerable, but it was a great -deal too much to be taken out of his poor pocket by Mary’s little -regretful, sympathetic, yet mischievous look.</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, Mary’s heart was bounding along the avenue like a -bird, though her feet went soberly enough. It was so light, there was no -keeping it still; it sang little trills of pleasure along the way, and -mounted up towards heaven, and found a new brightness over all the -earth. To think that she who was only Mary should suddenly have become -the princess of a kingdom all her own—to think that she should be all -at once of consequence enough to make a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> abandon all his duties! It -was indeed very wrong of a man in Mr. Asquith’s position to abandon any -of his duties for the sake of this little girl: but Mary did not see it -in that light. As she walked by herself up the avenue she laughed loud -out, and then felt dreadfully ashamed of herself, and dried her eyes, -which were full of tears. How foolish it was of him! To say even to -herself that this man, who was the best man she had ever met, was -foolish, was a sort of delightful little sin to Mary, a piece of -profanity—a small wickedness. How dared she say he was foolish? and -yet—oh! how foolish he was. How nice of him to be so silly! Perhaps he -was afraid that she did not care for him, would not have him if he asked -her? No doubt that was what he was afraid of. To think that he knew -Latin and Greek and theology, and all manner of things, and could read -German, yet could not read what was in Mary’s eyes! She sat down by the -roadside, before the house was in sight, not daring to see anybody, glad -to be alone, to have time to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> think over again what he said and how he -looked, and to say to herself how silly it was!</p> - -<p>All this time, as will be seen, Mary had not the faintest enlightenment -as to what it was that Mr. Asquith feared. She never thought of his -poverty, of what it is to be a poor curate or a poor curate’s wife, -without hope of advancement, or money enough to keep the wolf from the -door. She thought only of him, and how glad she would be to do -everything for him—to live in a cottage, and look after her own little -housekeeping, and make him comfortable, more comfortable than ever he -had been in his life, and to help him and work with him. She thought -that to be the first in all the world to one who was the first in all -the world to her, was the fairest fate that earth could give. She had no -doubt on the subject, or fear—for how could she tell, who had never had -above a few shillings in her life, how much two people require to live -upon? or how could she take into consideration other consequences, which -were more serious still?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith went to see Sally Williams that day, and for many days -after, as long as the poor girl lived, but never again did he meet Mary -there. He did not see her at the almshouses, he encountered her -nowhere—which indeed was a little instinctive coquetry mingled with -modesty on Mary’s part: for she would not, after having exerted herself -to bring him back, allow him to find her in his way, as if that had been -what she wanted. And now it was the curate’s turn to be astonished, and -to feel himself injured. Though he had retired from his daily duties in -order to avoid Mary, he felt himself sadly aggrieved, now that he had -returned to them, to find that Mary avoided him. Instead of -congratulating himself that they were both of accord, and that in this -way his purpose would be the better accomplished, this inconsistent -young man felt sadly disappointed, taken in, cheated, and ill-used. Why -had she spoken to him so, if she had meant to conclude their intercourse -in this way? Mr. Asquith’s annoyance was all the greater from the fact -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> Mary did not neglect her little offices of charity in order to -avoid him as he had done in order to avoid her. She was cleverer than he -was, so far as this went, and had her faculties more free. He was always -hearing wherever he went that Miss Mary had just gone. “It is not five -minutes since Miss Mary went. She is that good,” said poor Mrs. -Williams, “now that my poor girl is sinking, she never misses a day.” -“You’re kindly welcome, Mr. Asquith, sir,” said the old woman at the -almshouse. “Take that chair, sir. It’s one as was set for Miss Mary. She -was scarce gone when I see you coming.” Mr. Asquith was fretted beyond -description by these perpetual missings. He could not get them or her -out of his head. Sometimes he was more angry than words can say. He -thought she did it on purpose (which was not far from the truth), in -order to show him how presumptuous he was, and how impossible that she -could ever care for him (which was not the truth at all). And at last -the poor curate was wrought to such a point of exasperation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> that he -made up his mind, when he did meet her, that he would tell her what she -had done, and how cruelly she had treated him, and then leave the parish -altogether. But he would not go without letting her know. She should be -made aware that what was sport to her was death to him. To have wrung a -man’s heart and spoiled his life might appear to her a small matter, but -the curate was resolved that so far he would have his revenge, since he -could have nothing else, and that she should know what she had done.</p> - -<p>They met at last quite accidentally, in the quietest road, where their -interview was certain not to be disturbed by any intruder. At least, it -can scarcely be said that they met; he was jogging wearily, determinedly -along, thinking how he never saw her, and how he must see her, once at -least, before the end of all things, when suddenly the grey frock he -knew so well appeared round the corner of a cross road, and Mary, not -seeing him, went on before him, tranquilly, on her way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> home. The -curate’s heart stood still. Should he, now that the matter was in his -own hands, put off the crisis? Should he have it out now once for all? -After standing still for that one moment, his heart bounded up into his -throat, wildly beating, and in a long stride or two Mr. Asquith was at -Mary’s side.</p> - -<p>And now for the vials of wrath that were to be poured out, the passion -of love and reproach that was to end all their intercourse, and with it -that glimpse of a sweeter life which had come suddenly to the curate in -Horton! But when he came up with her he was breathless, partly from -haste, partly from agitation, and it was Mary who said the first word. -She looked up into his face surprised and smiling, with a sweetness that -went to his very heart. There was no guilty consciousness in her eyes. -She did not look at him as one who had sinned against him, as one who -felt that he had something to reproach her with, but with a look of -pleasure, as if she were quite happy in this unexpected meeting. “Oh, -Mr. Asquith, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> it you? What a long time it is since I have seen you!” -she said, in her pleasant voice.</p> - -<p>“It is a long time,” said the curate, panting: and then he added, “I -fear I have made you change your hours and your habits, which is more -than I am worth.”</p> - -<p>“Change my hours and my——. I haven’t got any hours or habits,” cried -Mary, “and indeed I don’t know what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Mary!” he cried. I don’t think he knew her surname at all, or -if he once knew it he had forgotten it, for Mary was the only name he -ever heard given to her. “Oh, Miss Mary!” he cried, “I never meet you -now in any of the cottages wherever I go: and I know how that is. I know -that you have seen what was going on in my presumptuous mind: but there -was no presumption in it, if you only knew. I know very well I am -poor—as poor as—as poor as a church mouse, as people say,—too poor to -ask any woman to share my miserable fortunes. Don’t, don’t for heaven’s -sake be afraid of me! If I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> can’t help thinking of you, at least I can -help saying it. I gave up my visiting when I saw what was coming: but -you spoke to me yourself on that subject. You said, had a man a right to -neglect his duty for the sake of—for the sake of—— And I knew that -what you said was just. From that day I made up my mind to go on with -all my usual visiting, and to go on seeing you, which was always sweet -though cruel; to go on as if it did not matter, only never to say a -word——”</p> - -<p>“And what has made you change your resolution, Mr. Asquith?” said Mary, -very demurely, without raising her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Change? I have not changed at all,” he said. And then he stopped short, -with a look of misery and confusion. “What have I done?” he said. “What -have I done? though I did not intend it—it has been too much for me—I -have betrayed myself after all!”</p> - -<p>And for a moment he turned his back upon her, as if he would have fled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Don’t run away,” said Mary, softly touching his arm with her hand. “Why -shouldn’t you tell me—whatever you wanted to tell me?—if you did -really want to tell me anything,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary!” cried the curate, and paused; for the words came so fast -upon him that he did not know which to say first.</p> - -<p>“Yes?” said Mary softly, giving him one little sidelong glance: and then -her face crimsoned over, and she drooped her head, but still with a -modest note of interrogation in the turn of her fine little pink ear.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_072.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_072.jpg" height="147" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_073.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_073.jpg" width="358" height="127" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>PARADISE LANE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“W</span>E must tell them all directly,” Mary said.</p> - -<p>“Tell them!” cried the curate. For one brief half hour he had forgotten -everything, and given himself up to that delight which once in his life -every man has a right to—or so at least we think when we are young—the -delight of loving and being loved. The bare country road had turned into -Paradise, into Elysium for both of them; it was more beautiful and sweet -than anything out of heaven. The green boughs waved softly between them -and the celestial blue above, making a chequer-work of sun and shade -that flickered and danced, and made the very dust under their feet -happy; and as for the flowers in the hedgerows, no roses were ever so -sweet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> They walked upon enchanted ground, and all nature sang soft -hymns of praise over their happiness, which was sweeter than the roses, -or anything that earth, our homely foster-mother, can give. She was -wistfully glad of it, that brown and faithful nurse, that mother earth, -who could strew flowers at their feet, but could not bestow such -blessedness. But when Mary said those simple words, the world, which had -nothing to do with that hour, suddenly rolled its great shadow round, -coming between the curate and the sunshine of heaven. “Tell them!” he -said, and his countenance fell. Oh yes, he knew very well they must be -told: but he had been able to forget it for that moment of delight.</p> - -<p>“Yes, tell them. You meant that?” said Mary, looking up somewhat alarmed -in his face.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I meant that,” he said with a groan—“at least, I didn’t mean -anything. I never meant to tell <i>you</i>, let alone them.”</p> - -<p>“So you said,” Mary remarked, in her demure way; “you told me you had -made up your mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> not to tell me——” and she laughed in the pleasure -of her maiden power.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my darling!” the curate said, “it would have been better if I had -not told you. It would have been better if I had gone away, and -smothered my heart or myself, if necessary, rather than have brought -this trouble on you.”</p> - -<p>“Trouble!” she cried, and laughed. Mary was not a bit afraid. She was as -ignorant as the bird who was singing little saucy songs and melodious -gibes at them overhead, calling on all his bird neighbours to make fun -of the lovers, who had waited for June and full summer, instead of -building their nests like prudent folk in the early spring. Mary knew -about as much as the thrush did on the subject of ways and means—and -she was not afraid.</p> - -<p>“They will not hear me speak,” he said; “they will ask me how I could -dare to think of dragging you down into my poverty? I know that is what -they will do—and they will be right,” he added with a great sigh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary paused a little in surprise, and then she asked, “I wonder what you -think I am? Do you think I am rich?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, pressing her hand close to his side. “Thank heaven! I -know you are not rich.”</p> - -<p>“I see very little to thank heaven about,” said Mary, “on that score: -perhaps you think that I have great prospects, or that somebody is going -to leave me a great deal of money, or—something. Why, I have not a -penny in the world! And my aunt is always shaking her head and saying, -‘If anything happens to your uncle!’ Do you know what I should have to -do then? I should have to go out as a governess, if anybody would have -me to teach their children—or perhaps as a maid in the nursery.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush!” he cried. “You a maid in the nursery! But, Mary darling, you -would be almost better as a governess than you will be with me. Do you -know how much I have a year? A hundred pounds and my lodging, and I -don’t know where I am to get any more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“A hundred pounds! I never had a hundred shillings of my own. It seems -quite a great sum,” said Mary. “I should think we could do very well -upon that. We must have a cottage of our own though. I have often -thought a cottage might be made very pretty if one were to take a little -trouble. I should like it so much better than a big house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary, you little angel! You have just come astray out of heaven, -and you know nothing about this hard world,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t I?” said Mary, with a laugh of superior wisdom,—“much more -than you do, I am sure, though you are so much cleverer than I. We could -not have many servants, that’s true. But what is the good of -them—except to get in each other’s way, and make aunt cross? I’ll tell -you what I shall have. I’ll have a nice strong big girl out of the -schools, and train her myself: and you’ll see, after a while, all the -ladies will be contending to get one of the girls whom <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>Mrs. ——”</p> - -<p>Here Mary paused, and blushed redder than ever, and with a cough turned -her head away.</p> - -<p>“Finish your sentence,” said the happy curate, too happy for the moment -to remember how foolish it was. “Mrs. ——? Finish what you were going to -say.”</p> - -<p>“You know well enough,” said Mary, who in the delightful fervour of -settling everything had thus been carried away so much farther than she -intended. She added after a moment in a lower tone, “You know it is a -very funny name.”</p> - -<p>“I think now it is the sweetest name in the world. Mary Asquith,” he -said—“Mrs. Asquith—I prefer it to any in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mary, considering, “it has this for it, that it is not just -like anybody’s name. It has a great deal of character in it. You don’t -forget it as soon as you have heard it, like Smith or Brown.”</p> - -<p>“It is an old name,” he said, with a little pride, “and one very well -known in Cumberland, and known only for good, Mary. But,” he added<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> -suddenly, after this outburst, “you are not to suppose that I am -claiming to belong to a great family. Oh no, we are only yeomen; we are -not equal to the Prescotts. We have an old house, which will be my -brother’s, but not like Horton—a homely old place, no better than a -farmhouse. That is another thing that will be against me,” he said, his -voice sinking out of its happiness and pride into subdued tones.</p> - -<p>“There cannot be anything against you,” said Mary, giving a little -pressure to his arm. “Do you think I am such a prize? They will be glad, -I shouldn’t wonder, to get me off their hands; my poor aunt will not -have to say any more, ‘Mary, if anything happens to your uncle!’ I shall -have my own—person,” she said, pausing for a word, and laughing over -it, “my own—person to take care of me—and what more does any girl -require?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith was cheered, and yet not quite cheered, by these -encouragements. He was very happy, and yet quite miserable. Nothing -could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> take away from him the delight and glory which had fallen upon -him out of heaven in that homely green lane of Paradise. But—his mind -made a leap forward, or backward rather, to the things he had seen, to -the facts of life which he knew, to the hard, hard existence of poverty. -Had any man a right to drag down a woman, a girl so gently bred as Mary, -into that gulf? had any man a right to bring children into the world -with no bread to give them? He had held very distinct views upon this -subject, and had sworn to himself that he never would so sin against the -innocent, against the unborn. How often had he seen what followed in -other poor clerical houses! He had seen the pretty young bride, all -unthinking, all unfearing, pleased with her little house, and her -married dignity, dragged down into a careworn troubled woman, a -hard-working woman, with rough hands and a burdened mind, manual labour, -and mental care, her strength and her heart both failing as the heavy -years went on. To think of Mary, so young and sweet, so thoughtless and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> -lighthearted, so ignorant, bless her! of all these horrible realities, -sinking, sinking year by year into such a woman—and by his means! The -curate shrank within himself, his heart seemed to contract with a great -pang. By his means! all because he could not contain himself, could not -keep silent; could not love her without betraying his love. Oh, what a -thing it was, that highest of human sentiments, that it could not curb a -man’s tongue, or restrain his impulses! That a man should love and yet -not be able to keep silent, to spare the object of his love! He might -have loved her all his life, and his love would have been a sweetness -and a strength to him; but he ought to have respected her innocence and -her youth, and never have told it, locked it up in his own bosom. If he -had never spoken, God bless her! that would have given her a pang: but -had he gone away, in a little time she would have forgotten him. But -now, there could be no forgetting—now there was no going back—and she -herself would insist upon the consummation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> of this sacrifice, upon -giving him the solace of her sweet companionship, making him happy, -making herself a servant, enduring toil, and privation, and care for his -sake. For the curate knew that, whatever any one might say, it was the -woman that had the worst of it. He would have to submit that she should -be his servant, executing even menial offices, with those hands which he -might kiss and reverence, but whose work he could not do. The woman had -the worst of it: and he knew so many cases,—some where she had sunk -altogether into a half cook, half nurse—a careworn creature spoiled -with toil; and some in which she had developed into a patient angel, -sacred and consecrated in her labours and sufferings. Mary would be -that, the lover thought; and yet, who could tell that she would be that? -and who could dare to open to a woman’s feet that path of tears and bid -her tread it, whatever might await her at the end? He went home to his -lodgings with his heart bleeding, although his brain was giddy with -happiness, and with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> desire to believe that in his case there might -be a difference, and that, for once, for once, all precedents -notwithstanding, things might go well.</p> - -<p>As for Mary, there never was a lighter heart than that with which she -ran up the avenue, in too great a flutter and ferment to walk steadily, -too happy to keep still. She felt as if she had wings, as if she trod -upon air, and burst out singing, as she ran along under the trees, from -pure joy. She had got her little promotion, the only promotion of which -her life was capable. She had got her own world, her own life, her own -share of the universe of God. To be sure she had been happy enough all -her life, but how colourless that life looked amid the light and -sunshine that streamed upon this! “Only Mary” in a house full of people -was more important, and Mrs. Asquith in her own house, the dispenser of -happiness, the little monarch of all she surveyed! What a difference! -What a difference! These were the secondary matters, the first beyond -all <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span>comparison being <i>him</i>, the man out of all the world whom God had -chosen for Mary. It seemed to her that a whole long chain of special -providences had brought them together. That he should have come here, of -all places in the world—he for whom every parish in England would have -competed had they but known. That he should have come to the Hall, and -yet not fallen in with the ways of the Hall, or fallen in love with Anna -or Sophie, which would have been so much more likely. That he should -have met her, and liked her, Mary, the little one who was of no account, -best! Could such things have happened had not the heavens specially -interested themselves, and taken unusual trouble to bring it all about? -Even the meeting this morning was providential, for she was to have gone -off on a visit the very next day, and in the meantime a hundred things -might have happened to close his mouth. And to think that he should have -been so frightened to speak. Oh, how foolish men were sometimes, though -they were also so clever! What great prospects did he suppose she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> -have to make him not good enough for her? Not good enough for her! It -was almost with a little shriek of happiness, and scorn, and admiration -that Mary commented to herself upon his intentions and his -self-reproaches. The foolish fellow! the darling! the noble, humble, -good!—everybody but himself knowing how much too good for her he was.</p> - -<p>Women have a great deal to bear in this world. Their lot is in many -respects harder than that of men, and neither higher education, nor the -suffrage, nor anything else can mend it. But there is one moment at -least in which a girl has always the best of it, and that is when she -has just accepted her lover. At that blissful epoch she has all the -pleasure, with little or nothing of the care. It is he who has to -encounter the anxious father or careful trustee. He has to meet the -scoff with which those personages receive the trembling announcement of -a small, a very small income. He has to think where the money is to come -from to set up the new household. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> has the best of it for once in -her life. Afterwards the tables are turned. Not always, perhaps, but -very often; and always, I am inclined to think, when poverty is the lot.</p> - -<p>But Mary thought of none of all these things; with her it was all -sunshine. She could scarcely keep from bursting out with her great news -to everyone she met. To sit down at lunch and eat as if nothing had -happened was almost an impossibility. If they only knew! They might have -known, indeed, had they looked at her, that something had happened. But -nobody took any notice. A slight accident had happened to John, of which -he was discoursing at great length. “I thlipped,” he said, “on the -grass; there was nothing to make me thlip that I could see. It was -thlippery with the rain, or because Morton had mowed it this morning. It -was the strangest thing I ever thaw. On the grass—the thimplest thing! -But I might have thprained my ankle. Yes, I might. I can’t think how I -didn’t thprain my ankle,” said John.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span></p> - -<p>“But you didn’t, you see, so it doesn’t matter,” said his father.</p> - -<p>“He might have, though; and what a thing that would have been!” Mrs. -Prescott remarked, who was more sympathetic, and had a great leaning to -her eldest son.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it would have been a very bad busineth,” said John.</p> - -<p>And that was the sort of talk that was going on while Mary sat beaming, -and nobody found her little secret out.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_087.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_087.jpg" width="151" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_088.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_088.jpg" width="361" height="97" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE DISCLOSURE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R. PRESCOTT spread himself out before the fireplace, standing with his -legs apart, and his coat tails extended. There was, of course, no fire -in the month of June, but an Englishman spreading himself out upon his -own hearthrug, like a cock on his appropriate elevation, is more an -Englishman than at any other moment. The Squire looked benevolently, yet -severely upon the curate, who sat before him, twisting his soft hat in -his hands. This was the only sign of embarrassment Mr. Asquith showed, -but it was very discernible. He sat with his face turned towards his -judge, without any shrinking or quailing, a little pale, very -self-possessed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> quiet. It was a very serious moment, and that the -curate well knew.</p> - -<p>“My niece!” Mr. Prescott said, and his countenance cleared a little, for -he had thought at first that it must be one of the princesses of his -house that this man was wooing. “Mary! why, Mary is not old enough for -this sort of thing. How old is she? Why, she is only a child!”</p> - -<p>“You have got used to considering her a child, Mr. Prescott; but I -believe she is one-and-twenty, if you will inquire.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Prescott made a calculation within himself, and after a moment said, -“So she is: I believe she is in her two-and-twentieth year. Who would -have thought it! You must know,” he added, “Mr. Asquith—though I don’t -know what your ideas may be on that subject—that though Mary is my -niece, she has no money, not a penny. My sister was sadly imprudent in -her marriage. Her orphan child, of course, had a home with me, but there -is nothing in the way of fortune, not a sou.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“So I understood,” said the curate, “otherwise I should never have -ventured to approach her, being myself so poor a man.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said the Squire, looking at him doubtfully; then he added with -cheerfulness, “You are still on the first step, Mr. Asquith, there is no -telling how far you may go.”</p> - -<p>“I am not the stuff of which bishops are made,” said the curate, with a -short laugh.</p> - -<p>“Well, there is no telling,” said the other; and then he entered upon -business. “You will understand,” he said, “that I must make certain -inquiries before going any farther. In the matter of family now. We are -not rich people, but in that respect we Prescotts have certain -pretensions——”</p> - -<p>“In that respect it is very easy to answer you, Mr. Prescott. So far as -old family goes, mine is old enough. We have been in Cumberland in -direct descent, father and son, settled in the same place, for three -hundred years. But——” Mr. Prescott had been nodding his head in -approval,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> saying to himself that he knew Asquith was a good name in the -North. He looked up, but only with the faintest shadow on his face, at -the curate’s “but.”</p> - -<p>“But,” repeated Mr. Asquith firmly, “though we are an old-established -race, we are not what you would call gentry, Mr. Prescott. My father is -of the old class of statesmen in Cumberland——”</p> - -<p>“What is that?” asked the Squire hastily.</p> - -<p>“It is, I suppose, what you call yeomen in the South.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Mr. Prescott. He recovered from this shock, however, in -shorter time than might have been expected; for a substantial yeoman is -a very respectable personage, and there are often nice little hoards of -money behind them; and then it was only Mary, after all.</p> - -<p>“I don’t pretend to say that I should not have been better pleased had -you sprung from a family of gentry, Mr. Asquith; but after all, to have -a family of any kind is something in these days. And you, of course, -have had the education of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> gentleman.” The curate winced a little at -this, not liking the idea that he had not always been a gentleman, even -though he had the moment before disowned any such pretensions. But he -did not betray his impatience, and Mr. Prescott continued, “The most -important point is: you propose to marry my niece: what have you to -support her? I have told you she has nothing of her own. Are you in -circumstances to keep her in the position to which she has been -accustomed? Your private means——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Prescott,” said the curate crushing his hat in his tremulous hands, -“that is exactly the question—that is the painful part—I have nothing. -I have no private means; I have no expectations to speak of. My father, -when he dies, will leave me perhaps some trifle—a few hundred pounds; -but the fact is, I have nothing—nothing but my income from my curacy.” -He had not strength enough to meet the Squire’s astonished gaze. His -head drooped forward a little. “I am aware that you must think me -presumptuous to the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> degree, even careless of her comfort—for I -have nothing but my poverty to offer—nothing——” for once in his life -Mr. Asquith’s courage fairly failed him, and he would have liked to run -away, and be heard of in Horton no more. Oh, happy Mary, before whom no -such ordeal lay!</p> - -<p>“This is a very strange statement, Mr. Asquith,” the Squire said.</p> - -<p>The curate assented with a movement of his head; he could not say any -more.</p> - -<p>“It is a very strange statement,” Mr. Prescott repeated. “You don’t -expect, I hope, that I—with the many calls upon me——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith half got up from his chair; he raised his hand, half -deprecating, half indignant.</p> - -<p>“I have a great many claims upon me,” said the Squire reassured; “the -estate does not bring in half it once did. You know as well as I do how -landed property has deteriorated; and my second son is in the army, and -has a great many expenses, and my girls to be provided for—I cannot be -responsible for anything so far as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> Mary is concerned. I have given her -her education and all that, but as for any allowance——”</p> - -<p>“If she had anything of the sort, do you think I could ever have -spoken?” the curate said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Prescott was reassured: there was obvious sincerity in this -disclaimer. He stood for a moment silent with a perturbed countenance, -and then he said suddenly, “That’s all very well, Mr. Asquith, but -you’re not like a silly girl who knows nothing—you’ve some acquaintance -with the world. It is quite right of you to express such sentiments. But -if you marry her, how are you to keep her? that is the question for me.”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said the curate, “you have a right to say anything—everything on -that subject. It <i>is</i> the question, I know all the gravity of it. It is -what I cannot answer even to myself.”</p> - -<p>“If you would not have spoken in the other case, supposing she had -something of her own—how was it that you spoke now?” said the Squire, -pushing his advantage; “a man ought to be able to deny himself in such -circumstances. Men of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> your cloth permit themselves freedoms which other -poor men don’t. A parson marries and has a large family, and everybody -is sorry for him, whereas, if it was a poor soldier who did it, or a -clerk in a public office, or——”</p> - -<p>The curate did not speak, it was all perfectly true. He had said the -same himself a hundred times. He had said, even to the unfortunate -culprit himself, that a clergyman, because he was a clergyman, had no -right. And now it was brought home to himself, and he had not a word to -say.</p> - -<p>“What does my brother Hugh give you?” said the inexorable Squire. “A -hundred a year? I suppose it is as much as he can afford. And how are -you to live with a wife on a hundred a year? How do you live on it -without a wife? Percy, besides his pay, costs me—but that is nothing to -the purpose. I ask you, can you live on it yourself, Asquith, without -any supplement, without anything from home?”</p> - -<p>The curate smiled somewhat grimly. Anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> from home! He had been -obliged to pay back to his poor father various sums expended on his -education, which was a very different thing from receiving help from -home. He said, “I have been able to manage—without any assistance,” in -a subdued tone. It was not pleasant to be thus cross-examined, but the -Squire had a right to ask all manner of questions. He had put himself in -Mr. Prescott’s power.</p> - -<p>“Supposing you have—I think it’s very much to your credit. And there’s -the lodgings, of course, that’s always something. But supposing you -have—how are you to keep a wife? And have you thought of the -consequences, sir?” said the Squire severely. “If it was only a wife -even; but you know what always follows—half-a-dozen children before you -know where you are. How are you to educate them, sir? How are you to -feed them? How are you to set them out in the world? And yet you come -and ask me, a man that has seen such things happen a hundred times, to -give you my niece.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mr. Asquith blushed like a girl at this suggestion. Mary herself was -scarcely more modest, more delicate in all such embarrassing questions. -And though he was not a humorous man by nature, a gleam of the ludicrous -made its way into the question through the fierce countenance of the -Squire. “These consequences,” he said, “cannot come all at once. They -will take a few years at least: and I don’t calculate on staying always -at Horton. In a town, in a large parish, curates have better pay.”</p> - -<p>“And are worked off their feet, they and all their belongings, their -wives made drudges of, regular parish women, Bible women, or whatever -you call them. I know what goes on in large parishes, in great towns. -And the children grow up on the streets. No, the country’s bad enough, -but at least they can get fresh air and milk in the country, and people -may be kind to them: and there’s always a schoolmaster or someone to -give them a little education.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Prescott,” said the curate mildly, “the children you are so kindly -anxious about are not born yet, and perhaps never will be. Don’t let us -go any farther than is necessary. The question in the meantime concerns -only Mary and myself.”</p> - -<p>“And how long will that be the case?” cried the Squire. But presently he -calmed down. “You might get food perhaps,” he said. “I say perhaps—I -don’t see how you are to do it—but allow that you could get food out of -it, and a cottage to live in—where are your clothes to come from? Where -are your shoes to come from? Mary is a lady; she has been brought up to -have servants to wait upon her. Is my niece to be your housemaid, Mr. -Asquith? your cook, and your washerwoman, and everything? You should -marry somebody that is used to that sort of thing. Somebody who has the -strength for it. Somebody in your own class of life!”</p> - -<p>The curate rose up with a flush of anger on his face. He could keep his -temper, but yet it stung him, all the more that it was just enough, and -he had already said all this to himself. He said, “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> fear it will do no -good to talk of it longer, Mr. Prescott—you drive me to despair. And I -don’t deny that it is all true, everything you say. But I shall not -always be curate at Horton. I shall not always continue a curate even, I -hope. Sometimes, even without much influence, if a man does his work -well, promotion comes.”</p> - -<p>“Very seldom,” said the Squire.</p> - -<p>“Still it comes sometimes: and if ever man had an inducement to -work—will you think it over and try to look upon it more favourably? I -know what a sacrifice it must be for her. Still, she has a right to -choose too.”</p> - -<p>“To choose—at her age—knowing nothing of the world! Whatever you felt, -sir, you should have kept it to yourself—you should not have spoken. -How is a girl to know?”</p> - -<p>“I thought so too,” said the poor curate, humbly. “But a man has not -always command of himself.”</p> - -<p>“A man ought always to have command of himself when another person’s -comfort is con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span>cerned, especially a clergyman, who makes more profession -of virtue than other men,” said the Squire, following him to the door, -and sending that last volley after him. Mr. Asquith went away from the -Hall a miserable man. He had not the heart to ask for Mary, to tell her -how he had failed. As he hurried away, however, down the avenue, his -heart, which had sunk altogether, began to rise a little in indignation. -Why a clergyman more than other men? That a clergyman should be shut out -from that side of life altogether was comprehensible. He might take vows -as in the Church of Rome, there was reason in that. When men were so -poor as he was, instead of tantalising them with the idea of freedom, -and exposing them to all its risks, it might be better if they were -under the protection of vows and forbidden to marry. But as that was not -so, and the English ideal was quite different, why should it be worse in -a clergyman than in other men? A clergyman could not struggle and push -for promotion. He could not compete and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> shoulder his way through the -crowd. Must he give up also all that made existence sweet? And then the -further question arose, would it have been better for Mary had he held -his tongue and gone away and never told her he loved her? Had he perhaps -closed that chapter to her too? Perhaps she might have forgotten him, -and learned to love a richer man. But then perhaps she might not. -Naturally a man feels that a woman who has learned to love <i>him</i> will -not easily change, or transfer her affections to another. Would it not -have been a wrong to Mary had he kept silence, had he never told her? It -is better even to love and lose, the poet says, than never to love at -all. It is better to have the triumph and delight of knowing that you -are loved, even if that love never comes to any earthly close. Why -should Mary have lost that because they were both poor? Nobody could -take away from them that moment of blessedness, that sense of sweetest -union, even if they might never marry at all—never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span>—</p> - -<p>But here a pang which was very acute and poignant like a sword went -through the curate’s heart. Never marry at all! Lose her, leave her, be -parted from her, after what they had said to each other! Oh, what deep -shadows come along with the brightest sunshine of life! What was the -good of living at all, of having known each other, of having recognized -the loveliness and sweetness of existence, if this was what had to be?</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_102.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_102.jpg" width="240" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_103.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_103.jpg" width="360" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>NEVERTHELESS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE reader who is experienced, and knows how things go in this world, -especially in questions of love and marriage, will not be surprised to -hear that notwithstanding this troublous passage and several more, Mary -was married to the curate in the autumn of that same year. When two -people have set their hearts on this conclusion, it is astonishing how -very seldom they are foiled, or disappointed in it. One or the other -must break down in resolution: there must be a faint heart somewhere -before parents or guardians or trustees or any authorities whatsoever -can resist them. In the present case the authorities were weaker than -usual, for they were not agreed. Mr. Prescott, to his astonishment, -found that even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> his wife was not at one with him on this important -question. He hurried to the morning room in which she was sitting to -tell her, still in all the excitement of the discussion with the curate; -but his fervour was chilled by the very first words she said. “I let him -know very clearly what my opinion was. I told him that this sort of -thing was doubly culpable in a clergyman. Between ourselves, it is only -clergymen who do it. They believe in some sort of miracle, I -suppose—feeding by the ravens, or that sort of thing: or else they -expect to be maintained by the girl’s family; but I soon let him see -that nothing of the kind was to be looked for here.”</p> - -<p>“I hope, however, you didn’t send him away for good, John?” said Mrs. -Prescott, with a serious look.</p> - -<p>“Send him away for good! I daresay he did not see much good in it: but I -gave him a very decided answer, if that is what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Prescott, “I don’t mean to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> say that it would be a -good marriage for Mary: but very few men come to Horton at all, and we -can’t expect to live for ever, and it would be better that she should -have somebody to take care of her. I am not a matchmaker, you know. I -have been so too little, for there are Sophie and Anna still. But I do -think that in certain circumstances you ought to be very careful how you -reject an offer. If anything were to happen to us, what would become of -your niece? The girls might not care to have her always with them, and -it would not be at all suitable to have her here with John. She would be -in a very embarrassing position, poor child—one trying for all of them. -But if she had a husband to take care of her——”</p> - -<p>“A husband who could not give her bread, much less butter to her bread.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no one can ever tell. Someone with a living to give away might take -a fancy to him: clergymen have many ways of ingratiating themselves. Or -he might get a curacy in a town,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> where the pay is better, and where it -is important to get a man who can preach. He is a very good preacher, -far better than your brother Hugh, who always sends me to sleep. I don’t -know why you should reject Mr. Asquith. He has a great many things in -his favour, and Mary likes him. Has she told me? Well, without her -telling me, I hope I am not so stupid as to be ignorant of what’s in a -girl’s mind. She will be very much surprised, and I am not so sure that -she will obey.”</p> - -<p>“Mary—not obey!—I think you must be dreaming.”</p> - -<p>“It is all very easy to speak. Mary is most obedient about everything -that is of no consequence: but this is of great consequence, John. And -the girl is of age, though we have all got into the habit of treating -her like a child. Why should she let her best chance drop, because you -don’t like it? I don’t mean to say that it is much of a chance. But -still a man like that may always get on, whereas a girl has very little -likelihood,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> by herself, of getting on. And we can’t always be here to -look after her.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why you should be so very determined on that subject,” said -the Squire, with a little irritation. “We are not so dreadfully aged, -when all is said.”</p> - -<p>“No, we are not dreadfully aged, but we can’t last forever. Suppose you -were to be taken from us,” said Mrs. Prescott, with placidity, “three -girls would be a great responsibility for me: and suppose I were to go -first, you would feel it still more. Indeed, I should be very sorry to -refuse an offer for Mary. To see her with a husband to take care of her, -would be a great comfort to me. Of course all that we can do must be for -our own girls—and not too much for them,” the mother said.</p> - -<p>The Squire went out for his walk that day full of thought. He was a man -who at the bottom of his heart was a kind man, and one with a -conscience, a conscience of the kind which sometimes gives its possessor -a great deal of trouble. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> asked himself what was his duty to his -sister’s child? not to plunge her into poverty and the cares of life in -order to get rid of the responsibility from his own shoulders. Oh no, -that could never be his duty. But, at the same time, on the other hand, -to leave her in the care of a good husband was the best thing that could -happen to any girl. He knew enough of Mr. Asquith to be sure that he -would be a good husband. He was a good man, a man quite superior to the -ordinary type; though the curate was not very popular at the Hall, still -the Squire had perception enough to know this—that he was above the -average, not at all a common man. And he must be very much in love with -Mary, knowing that she had no money and no expectations, to have -subjected himself to such a cross-examination as Mr. Prescott knew he -had inflicted, on her account. Enlightened by his wife’s remarks, the -Squire thought the matter all over again from another point of view. The -man was very poor, but then Mary was very simple in her tastes, and if -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> girl really preferred to marry him in a cottage, rather than to -live on at the Hall, perhaps it was true that her uncle had no right to -cross her. It was not exactly, he said to himself, as if he were her -father. She had always been a docile little thing, but his wife seemed -to think that there was a possibility that in this matter Mary might not -be so docile, that she might take her own way; and if she did so there -would be a breach in the family, and he would be compelled to withdraw -his protection from her, and her mother’s story might be enacted over -again. Mary’s mother’s story had not been happy. She too had been asked -in marriage by a poor man, and had been refused by her father. And she -had run away with her lover, and had suffered more than Mr. Prescott -liked to think of before she died. He said to himself now that perhaps -if his father had consented, if they had tried to help Burnet on instead -of letting him sink, things might have been different. Anyhow, he would -never allow that episode to be repeated. And if Mary would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> marry Mr. -Asquith, she must do it with the consent of her people, and everything -that could be done must be done for her husband.</p> - -<p>He went across the park to the rectory and consulted his brother Hugh on -the subject, who was first amused and then shook his head. “I knew there -would be mischief when I saw what kind of a man the fellow was,” the -rector said.</p> - -<p>“What kind of a man! Why, he is not a lady’s man at all, he plays no -tennis, he never comes up in the afternoon, he seems to care nothing for -society. Neither John nor the girls can make anything of him.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s the dangerous sort,” said the Rev. Hugh, “there’s no flutter -in him. He settles on one, and there’s an end of it. He’s a terrible -fellow to stick to a thing. Take my word for it, John, you’ll have to -give in.”</p> - -<p>The Squire liked this view of the subject less than his wife’s view, and -went home roused and irritated, vowing that he would not give in. But by -that time he found Anna and Sophie discussing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> Mary’s trousseau, and the -whole household astir. “Of course she must have her things nice, and -plenty of them, for one never knows whether she will be able to get any -more when they’re done,” her cousins said. They were very good-natured. -They never doubted the propriety of accepting the curate, and were, -indeed, very strong in their mother’s view of the subject—that seeing -the uncertainty of life and the possibility any day of “something -happening” to papa, to get Mary off the hands of the family and settled -for life was a thing in every way to be desired. Mr. Prescott naturally -did not contemplate the likelihood of “something happening” to himself -with so much philosophy. But as they were all of one accord on the -subject, and his own thoughts so much divided, he gave in, of course, as -everybody knew he would do.</p> - -<p>And the fact of Mr. Asquith’s extreme poverty had its share, too, in -quickening the marriage. A very rich man and a very poor man have -nothing to wait for; they are alike in that—the rich,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> because his -means are assured; the poor because he has no means to assure. There is -nothing to wait for in either case. The rector gave Mr. Asquith -privately to understand that he would be on the outlook for something -better for him; and recommended the curate to do the same thing for -himself. “For this may do to begin with, but it is poor pickings for -two—and still less for three or four,” Mr. Hugh Prescott said. And thus -everything was arranged. John Prescott was the only one who took any -unexpected part in the matter. He astonished them all one day by -announcing suddenly that Mary must have a “thettlement.” “A settlement?” -said his father. “Poor child, there is nothing to settle either on one -side or the other.”</p> - -<p>The conversation took place at luncheon one day, when Mary was at the -rectory.</p> - -<p>“That’s just why there must be a thettlement,” repeated John, with an -obstinate air which he could put on when he chose, and of which they -were all a little afraid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What nonsense!” said Mrs. Prescott; “her clothes are all there will be -to settle, and they couldn’t be taken from her, whatever might happen.”</p> - -<p>“I know what I’m thaying,” said John. “She wants thomething to fall back -upon, it he dies; for he may die, as well as another.”</p> - -<p>“That’s very true,” said Mr. Prescott, with some energy. He was relieved -to feel that there was someone else to whom “something might happen,” as -well as himself.</p> - -<p>“She must have a thouthand poundth,” John said.</p> - -<p>And then there arose a cry in the room, a sort of concerted yet -unconcerted and unharmonious union of voices. The Squire made his -exclamation in a deep growling bass. Mrs. Prescott came in with a sort -of alto, and the girls gave a short shrill shriek. A thousand pounds! -thousands of pounds were not plentiful in Horton. Anna and Sophie -themselves knew that very few would fall to their share, and neither of -them had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> so much as a curate to make a living for her. They had been -very willing to be liberal about the trousseau, but a thousand pounds! -that was a different matter altogether. They all gazed with horror at -the revolutionary who proposed this. John was not clever, as everybody -knew; he looked still less clever than he was. He had pale blue eyes of -a wandering sort, which did not look as if they were very secure in -their sockets, and a long fair moustache drooping over the corners of -his mouth. And he had a habit of sticking a glass in one eye, which fell -out every minute or two and made a break in his conversation. Many -people about Horton were of opinion that he was “not all there,” but his -family did not generally think so. At this moment, however, with one -accord it occurred to them all that there was something not quite sane -about John.</p> - -<p>“Thir,” said John to his father, “you needn’t trouble if you’ve any -objection. I mean to do it mythelf.”</p> - -<p>“Do it yourself! you must be out of your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> senses,” cried his mother. -“Where will you get a thousand pounds? I never heard such madness in all -my life.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he means to take it off his legacy,” said the Squire, pale -with emotion; “if you’ve got a thousand pounds to dispose of, you had -better look a little nearer home. There’s Percy always drawing upon me, -and there’s the house falling to pieces——”</p> - -<p>“Or if you want to give it away, give it to your sisters, who have a -great deal more to keep up with their little money than ever Mary will -have,” Mrs. Prescott said.</p> - -<p>John did not say much. “I’ve thpoken to Bateman about the thettlement,” -he informed them, looking round dully with those unsteady eyes of his, -with an awkward jerk of his head and twist of his face to arrest the -fall of the eyeglass. The family, looking at him, were all exceptionally -impressed with the dulness of John’s appearance, the queerness of his -aspect. Really he did not look as if he were “all there.” But they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> -perfectly convinced they might move Horton House as soon as John, and -that the settlement on Mary, which they all thought so completely -unnecessary, was an accomplished thing.</p> - -<p>Mary was more affected by it than she had ever been by anything in her -life. John!—she said to herself that he had always taken her part, -always been kind to her. Like the rest of the family, she had regretted -sometimes that the dashing Percy, who was so much nicer to look at, so -much more of a personage, so full of spirit and life, had not been the -elder brother. But Percy would have kept all his pounds to himself, -everybody knew, though he had the air of being far more open-handed than -his brother. Percy, however, on this emergency came out too in a very -good light. He sent her a set of gold ornaments, a necklace and a -bracelet of Indian work, for he was in India at the time, along with a -delightful letter, asking how she could answer to herself for marrying -first of all, she, who had always been the little one, and who could -only be,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> Percy thought, about fifteen now. “Tell Asquith I think he is -a very lucky fellow,” Percy wrote. John never said a word, even at the -wedding breakfast, when it was expected he should propose the health of -the bride and bridegroom. All that he did was to get up from his seat, -looking about him dully with those unsteady eyes, give a gasp like a -fish, and then sit down again, his eyeglass rattling against his plate -as it fell, which was the only sound he produced. But everybody knew -what he meant, which was the great matter. And as for the “thettlement,” -the wisest man in England could not have arranged it more securely than -John had done.</p> - -<p>And so Mary and the curate were married in the late autumn, when the -leaves were covering all the country roads, and the November fogs were -coming on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_118.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_118.jpg" width="338" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>“HAPPY EVER AFTER.”</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE Asquiths, though they were so poor, got on very pleasantly at first. -Mary had forty-five pounds a year from her thousand, and thought herself -a millionaire; and Uncle Hugh gave the curate twenty pounds more in lieu -of the lodgings, which were not adapted for a married man. With this -twenty pounds they got a very pretty cottage—a little house which Mr. -Prescott said was good enough for anybody; where, indeed, the widow of -the last rector had lived till her death; and which had a pleasant -garden, and was far above the pretensions of people possessing an income -which even with these additions only came to a hundred and sixty-five -pounds a year. The house was furnished for them, almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> entirely by -their kind friends—a very large contribution coming from the Hall, -where there were many rooms that were never used, and even in the -lumber-room many articles that were good to fill up. In this way the new -married pair acquired some things that were very good and charming, and -some things that were much the reverse. They got some Chippendale -chairs, and an old cabinet which was in point of taste enough to make -the fortune of any house; but they also got a number of things -manufactured in the first half of the present century, of which the -least said the better. They did not themselves much mind, and probably, -being uninstructed, preferred the style of George IV. to that of Queen -Anne.</p> - -<p>And thus they lived very happily for two or three years. They lived very -happy ever after, might indeed have been said of them, as if they had -made love and married in a fairy tale. No words could have described -their condition better. Mary, delivered from the small talk of the -Horton<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> drawing-room, and living in constant companionship with a man of -education, whose tastes were more cultivated and developed than those of -the race of squires, which was all she had hitherto known, brightened in -intelligence as well as in happiness, and with the quick receptivity of -her age grew into, without labour, that atmosphere of culture and -understanding which is the <i>fine fleur</i> of education. She did not -actually know much more, perhaps, than she had known in her former -condition; but she began to understand all kinds of allusions, and to -know what people meant when they quoted the poets, or referred to those -great characters in fiction who are the most living people under the -sun. She no longer required to have things explained to her of this -kind. And as for the curate, it was astonishing how he brightened and -softened, and became reconciled to the facts of existence; and found -beauty and sweetness in those common paths which he had been disposed to -look upon with hasty contempt. No two people in the world,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> perhaps, can -live so much together, share everything so entirely, become one another, -so to speak, in so complete a way as a country clergyman and his wife. -Except the writing of his sermons, there was no part of his work into -which Mr. Asquith’s young wife did not enter; and even the sermons, -which were all read to her before they were preached, were the better -for Mary; for the curate was quick to note when her attention failed, -when her eyelids drooped, as they did sometimes, over her eyes. She was -far too loyal, and too much an enthusiast, you may be sure, ever to -allow in words that those prelections were less than perfect; but Mr. -Asquith was clever enough to see that sometimes her attention flagged. -Once or twice, before the first year was out, Mary nodded while she -listened—a delinquency which she denied almost furiously, with the -wrath of a dove; and which was easily explained by the fact that she was -at that moment “not very strong:” but which nevertheless Mr. Asquith, as -he laughed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> kissed her and said, “That was too much for you, Mary,” -took to heart. “Too much for me!” she cried; “if you mean far finer and -higher than anything I could reach by myself, of course you are quite -right, Henry; but only in that sense,” the tears coming into her eyes in -the indignation of her protest. The curate did not insist, nor try to -prove to her that she had indeed dozed, which some men would have done. -He was too delicate and tender for any such brutal ways of proving -himself in the right; but, all the same, he laid that involuntary -criticism to heart, to the great advantage of his preaching. Thus they -did each other mutual good.</p> - -<p>And what a beautiful life these two lived! I know a little pair in a -little town, with not much more money than the Asquiths, and connections -much less important, and surroundings much less pretty—a pair who have -only a little house in a street, with unlovely houses of the poor about -them, instead of comely cottages, who do very much the same, all honour -to them! The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> Asquiths flung themselves upon that parish, and took the -charge of it with a rush, out of the calm elderly hands which had for -years managed it so easily. I do not undertake to say that they did no -harm, or that they were always wise; nobody is that I have ever come in -contact with: but if there is any finer thing in the world than to -maintain a brave struggle with all that is evil on account of others, on -account of the poor, who so often cannot help themselves, I don’t know -what it is. These two laid siege to all the strongholds of ill in the -village—and evil, or the Evil One if you please to put it so, has many -such strongholds—with all the energies of their being. They fought -against wickedness, against disorder, against disease, against waste, -and dirt, and drink; against the coarse habits and unlovely speech of -the little rural place. They made a chivalrous attempt to turn all those -rustics into ladies and gentlemen—into what is better, Christian men -and women, into good and pure and thoughtful persons, considering not -only their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> latter end, as the parson had always bidden them to do, but -also their present living and all their habits and ways. The curate had -been working very steadily, in this sense, since he came to Horton; but -when he had, so to speak, Mary’s young enthusiasm, her feminine -practicalness, yet scorn of the practical and contempt of all the limits -of possibility, poured into him, stimulating his own strength, the -result was tremendous. The parish for a moment was taken by surprise, -and in its astonishment was ready to consent to anything the young -innovators desired. It would sin no more, neither be untidy any more; it -would abandon the public-house and wash its babies’ faces three times in -the day; it would put something in the savings-bank every Saturday of -its life, and open all its windows every morning, and pursue every smell -to the death. All this and more it undertook in the consternation caused -by that sudden onslaught: and for a little time, with those two active -young people in constant circulation among the cottages, giving nobody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> -any peace, scolding, praising, persuading, contrasting, encouraging, -helping too in that incomprehensible way in which the poor do help the -poor, a great effect was produced. As for going to church, that was the -first and easiest point; and here Mary came in with her music, which the -curate did not understand, influencing the choice of the hymns, and -getting up choir practices, and heaven knows how many other -seductions—artful temptations to the young to do well instead of doing -ill—sweetnesses and pleasures to make delightful the narrow way.</p> - -<p>“You think you are doing an immense deal,” said Uncle Hugh, “but you’ll -find it won’t last.”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t it last?” cried Mary. “They are so much happier in -themselves. Don’t you think a man must feel what a difference it makes -when he comes home sober, and finds a nice supper waiting him on -Saturday nights; and then to go out to church with all the children,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> -neat and clean, round him, instead of lounging, dirty, at the door with -his pipe?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is more comfortable,” said the rector, shaking his head. -“<i>I</i> should think so, certainly; but it isn’t human nature, my dear. You -will find that he will rather have his fling at the public-house, though -he feels wretched next morning. He likes to see his children nice; but -better still he likes his own pleasure. You’ll find it won’t last.”</p> - -<p>“We must be prepared for a few downfalls,” said the curate. “I tell Mary -that we must not expect everything to go on velvet. Some of them will -fall away; but with patience, and sticking to it, and never giving -in——”</p> - -<p>“Never giving in!” cried Mary. “Why, uncle, you don’t suppose I am so -silly as to think we could build Rome in a day. We quite look for -failures now and then,” she said, with her bright face. “We should -almost be disappointed if we had no failures; shouldn’t we, Henry? for -then it wouldn’t look real; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> with patience and time everything can -be done.”</p> - -<p>The rector only shook his head. He did not say, as he might have done, -that it was very presumptuous of these young people to think they could -do more in a few months than he had done in his long incumbency. The -rector’s wife was very strong on this point, and quite angry with Mary -and the curate for their ridiculous hopes; but Mr. Prescott himself -felt, perhaps, that his reign had been an indolent one, and that he had -not done all he might. But he shook his head; for, after all, though he -had been indolent, he knew human nature better than they did. He was not -angry with them; but he had seen such crusades before, and had various -sad experiences as to the dying out of enthusiasm, and the failure of -hope. And the rector, who was a kind man in his heart, knew through the -ladies of the family that the time was approaching when Mary would be -“not very strong,” and apt to flag in other matters besides that of -listening to her husband’s sermon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> And he knew, also, that the -conditions of life would change for them; that the young wife would find -work of her own to do, which could not be put aside for the parish; and -that “patience and time,” on which they calculated, were just what they -would not have to give: for when babies began to come, and all their -expenses were increased, how were they to go on with one hundred and -sixty-five pounds a year? The rector said to himself that he would not -discourage them, that they should do what they would as long as they -could. But he foresaw that the time would come when Mr. Asquith would be -compelled to seek another curacy with a little more money, and when -Mary, instead of being the good angel of the parish, would have to be -nurse and superior servant-of-all-work at home.</p> - -<p>“Poor things!” he said to his wife. “It is sad when you have to -acknowledge that you are no longer equal to the task you have set for -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t call them poor things,” said Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> Prescott. “I think them very -presuming, Hugh, after you have spent so many years here, to think they -can bring in new principles and make a reformation in a single day.”</p> - -<p>“We might have done more, my dear. We have taken things very quietly; -most likely we could have done more.”</p> - -<p>“You are as bad as they are, with your humility!” cried the rector’s -wife. “I have no patience with you. What have you left undone that you -ought to have done? I am sure you’ve always been at their beck and call, -rising up out of your warm bed to go and visit them in the middle of the -night, when you have been sent for—more like a country practitioner -than a beneficed clergyman! And though I say it that perhaps shouldn’t -say it, never one has been sent away, as you know, that came in want to -our pantry door. And as for lyings-in, and those sort of things——” -cried the country lady.</p> - -<p>“We needn’t go into details. As for your part of it, my dear, I know -that’s always been well<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> done,” said the politic rector. “Anyhow, don’t -let us say anything to discourage the Asquiths. It’s always a good thing -to stir a parish up.”</p> - -<p>“It’s like those revivalists,” said Mrs. Prescott—“a great fuss, and -then everything falling back worse than before.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no! not worse than before: somebody is always the better for it. I -like a good stirring up.”</p> - -<p>All this was very noble of the rector, who, if ever he had stirred up -the parish, had ceased to do it long ago. Perhaps he was a little moved -by the fervent conviction of the curate and the curate’s wife that in -their little day, and with the small means at their command, they could -do so much; at all events, he let them have their way and try their -best. And a great deal of work was done, with an effect by which they -were greatly delighted and elated in the first year.</p> - -<p>But then came the time when Mary was “not very strong,” and the choir -practices and various other things had to be given up—not entirely -given<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> up, for the schoolmaster and his daughter made an attempt to keep -them on, which was more trying to the nerves and patience of the invalid -than if they had ceased altogether. For jealousies arose, and the -different parties thought themselves entitled to carry their grievances -to Mrs. Asquith, even when she was very unfit for any disturbance; and -everything was very heavy on the curate’s shoulders during that period -of inaction which was compulsory on Mary’s part. They had undertaken so -much, that when one was withdrawn the other could not but break down -with overwork. However, there was presently a re-beginning; and Mary, -smiling and happier than ever, prettier than ever, and full of a warmer -enthusiasm still, came again to the charge. She understood the poor -women, the poor mothers, so much better now, she declared. Even the -curate himself was not such an instructor as that little three-weeks-old -baby, which did nothing but sleep, and feed, and grow. That was a -teacher fresh from heaven; it threw light on so many things, on the -very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> structure of the world, and how it hung together, and the love of -God, and the ways of men. Mary thought she had never before so fully -understood the prayer which is addressed to Our Father: she had not -known all it meant before: and the curate, indescribably softened, -touched, melted out of all perception of the hardness, feeling more than -ever the sweetness of life, received this ineffable lesson too.</p> - -<p>And so the crusade against the powers of evil was taken up again, with -all the new life of this little heavenly messenger to stimulate them; -but not quite so much of the more vulgar strength, the physical power, -the detachedness and freedom. Mary had to be at home with the baby so -often and so long. And the curate had so strong a bond drawing him in -the same direction, to make sure that all was going well. But still the -parish did not suffer in those young and happy years.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_133.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_133.jpg" width="357" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>THE LIGHT OF COMMON DAY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span>VEN in the quietest lives the first few years of married life are apt -to bring changes: the ideal dies off, with its fairy colours; the -realities of ordinary existence come with a leap upon the surprised -young people, to whom everything has been enveloped in the glory and the -brightness of a dream. That plunge into the matter-of-fact is often more -trying to the husband—who rarely sees the bride of his visions drop -into the occupations of the housewife and the mother without a certain -pang—than to the young woman herself, who in the pride and delight of -maternity finds a still higher promotion, and to whom the commonest -cares, the most material offices, which she would have shrunk from a -little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> while before, become half divine. But when the house is very -poor to begin with, and there is no margin left for enlargements, this -inevitable change is more deeply felt. By the time the third child -arrived, the Asquiths had changed their ideas about many things. Mary’s -help in the parish was now very fitful. She still accomplished what was -a great deal “for her:” but there had been no conditions or limits to -her labours in those early days, when she had worked like a second -curate, bearing her full share of everything. These were the days in -which so many things had been undertaken, more than any merely mortal -curate could keep up; and in the meantime there had been a great many -disappointments in the parish. Even before Mary’s powers failed, the -influence of the new impulse was over. The people had got accustomed to -all the many things that were being done for them: they were no longer -taken by surprise. The ancient <i>vis inertia</i>—that desire to be let -alone which is so strong in the English character—came uppermost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> once -more. “Oh, here’s this botherin’ practice again!” the boys and girls -began to say; or, “It’s club night, but I ain’t a-going. Them as gets -the good of the money can come and fetch it!”—for the village people by -this time had got it well into their heads that the custody of their -pennies and sixpences was in some occult way to the curate’s advantage. -And so in one way after another, ground was lost. Mr. Asquith got fagged -and worn out in his efforts to do more than one man could do, without -the help which had borne him up so triumphantly at first; he was deeply -discouraged by the defection of so many; and he felt to the bottom of -his soul the triumph in the eyes of Mrs. Prescott, at the rectory, who -had always said nothing would come of it. The rector, for his part, -would not show any triumph. He had behaved very well throughout; he had -not resented the curate’s attempts to improve upon all his own ways, and -do more than ever had been done before in Horton. And now when the -fervour of these first reformations began to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> fail, he did not say, “I -told you so,” as so many would have done. He was very moderate, very -temperate, rather consoling than aggravating the disappointment. “Human -nature is always the same,” he said. “Even when you get it stirred up -for a time, it reclaims its right to do wrong—and yet all good work -tells in the long run,” Mr. Prescott said, which was very good-natured -of him, and was indeed straining a point; for he was by no means so sure -that in the long run these Quixotic exertions did tell. But Mrs. -Prescott was not so forbearing. “You might have known from the beginning -this was how it would be,” she said to Mary. “You young people think you -are the only people who have ever attempted anything; but it isn’t -so—it’s quite the contrary. We have all tried what we could do, and -we’ve all been disappointed. I could have told you so from the first, if -you had shown any inclination to be guided by me!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aunt Jane!” cried Mary, “it all went on beautifully at first. It is -my fault, that have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> not kept up as I ought to have done. If I hadn’t -been such a poor creature, everything would have gone well.”</p> - -<p>“There is something in that,” said Mrs. Prescott, who had never had any -babies. “It is always a sad thing when a young woman has so many -children——”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Jane!” cried Mary, almost with a scream. She gathered the little -new baby to her bosom, and over its downy little head glared at her -childless aunt. “As if they were not the most precious things in -life—as if they were not God’s best gift! as if we could do without any -one of them!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not, my dear, now they are here,” said Mrs. Prescott; “but you -may let your friends say that it would have been much better for you if -they had not come so fast.”</p> - -<p>To this Mary could not make any reply, though her indignation was -scarcely diminished. She was, indeed, very indignant on this point. All -of these ladies—her aunt at the Hall and the girls,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> as well as her -aunt at the rectory—spoke and looked as if Mary was no better than a -victim, helplessly overwhelmed with children; whereas she was a proud -and happy mother, thinking none of them fit to be compared with her in -her glory. That they should venture to pity her, and say poor Mary! she, -who was in full possession of all that is most excellent in life, was -almost more than the curate’s wife could bear. Her two little boys and -her little girl were her jewels as they were those of the Roman woman -whom Mary had heard of, but whom she would have thought it too -high-flown to quote. She felt, all the same, very much like that -classical matron. Anna and Sophie were very proud of their diamond pins, -which even for diamonds were poor things; and they had the impertinence -to pity her and her three children! Mary fumed all the time they paid -her their visits, which had the air of being visits of condolence rather -than of congratulation; and in her weakness cried with vexation and -indignation after they had left. The curate came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> in before those angry -tears were dried, and her agitated feelings burst forth. “They come to -me and pity me,” she cried, “till I don’t know how to endure them! Oh, -Harry, I wish we were not so near my relations! Strangers daren’t be so -nasty to you as your relations!” Mary sobbed, with the long-pent-up -feeling, which in that moment of feebleness she could not restrain.</p> - -<p>“My dearest, never mind them,” he said soothingly. And then, after a -pause, with some hesitation,—“Mary, this gives me courage to say what I -never liked to say before. Don’t you find, even with your own little -income, dear, which I was so anxious should not be touched, and with all -the advantages here, that it is very difficult to make both ends meet?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Harry! I have been trying to keep it from you. I didn’t want to -burden you with that too. Difficult! it is impossible! I must give Betsy -warning. I have been making up my mind to it. After all, it is only -pride, you know, for she is very little good. I have had most of the -work<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> to do myself all the time. I must give her warning as soon as I am -well—or rather, we must try to find her a place, which is the best -way.”</p> - -<p>“What?” cried the curate. “Betsy, the only creature you have to do -anything for you! No, no. I cannot allow that.”</p> - -<p>“The housekeeping is my share,” said Mary, with a smile; “now that I can -do so little in the parish, I may at least be of use at home. And if you -only knew how little good she is! She can’t even amuse little Hetty, and -Jack won’t go to her!” These frightful details Mary gave with the -temerity they deserved. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do. There are -the Woods, who have always been so nice, so regular at school, and -attentive about the club. I mean to have Rosie, the eldest, to come in -for an hour or two in the morning to look after the children while I get -things tidy; and then Mrs. Wood herself will come on Saturdays and give -everything a good clean up: and you will see we shall get on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> -beautifully,” Mary said, smiling upon him with her dewy eyes, which were -still wet. But the irritation had all died away, and in the pallor of -her recent pangs, and the sacredness of her motherhood, no queen of a -poet’s imagination could have looked more sweet.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary, my darling!” cried the poor curate in his love and -compunction. “To think I should have brought you to this!”</p> - -<p>“To what?” said Mary radiant, “to the greatest happiness in life, to do -everything for one’s own? Oh! Harry, I am afraid I have not the -self-devotion a clergyman’s wife ought to have. I was happy to work in -the parish—but, dear, if you won’t despise me very much—I think I am -happier to work for the children and you.”</p> - -<p>What could the poor man do? He kissed her and went away humiliated, yet -happy. That he should have to consent to be served by her in the -homeliest practical ways—she, who was his love and his lady—had -something excruciating in it;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> and to think that his love should have -brought her to this, and that he should have foreseen it, and yet done -it in the weakness of his soul! But when he went back to that, the -curate could not be sorry either that he had loved Mary, or that he had -told her his love, or married her. She was not sorry—God bless -her!—but radiant and happy as the day, and more sweet, and more sacred, -and more beautiful than she had been even in her girlhood. What could he -say? He would not even disturb that exquisite moment by telling her of -the change that he was beginning to contemplate. Things could wait at -least for a few days.</p> - -<p>But when she told him that she had given Betsy warning, the curate did -speak. “I have done it,” she said, partly by way of excuse for bringing -in the tea herself, which she did, panting a little, but smiling over -the tray. “We shall be so much better off with Mrs. Wood coming in one -day in the week. Then we shall really have the satisfaction of knowing -that everything is clean for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> once, and no little spy in the house to -report to everybody what we have for dinner; but we must try and get her -another place, Harry; for though the children don’t like her, and I -should never recommend her for a nursery, there are some things that she -can do.”</p> - -<p>“Some things you have taught her to do,” Mr. Asquith said.</p> - -<p>“So much the more credit to me,” said Mary, laughing, “for she is not -very easy to teach.”</p> - -<p>It was evening, and the children were in bed and all quiet. The little -creature last born lay all covered up in the sitting-room beside them, -in a cradle, which the ladies at the Hall, notwithstanding their -indignation at his appearance, had trimmed with muslin and lace and made -very ornamental: and Mary was glad to put herself in the rocking-chair -which her cousin John had given her, and lie back a little and rest. -“One never knows,” she said, “how pleasant it is to rock, till one knows -what work is. But, Harry, you are over-tired, you don’t care for your -tea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I care a great deal more for seeing you tired,” he said. “Mary, I want -to speak to you about something very serious. Would it break your heart, -my dearest, if we were to go away from Horton? That is the question I -didn’t venture to ask the other day.”</p> - -<p>“Break my heart! when the children are well, and you? What a question to -ask! Nothing could break my heart,” cried Mary, with a delightful laugh, -“so long as all is right with you.”</p> - -<p>And then he told her that another curacy had been offered him, a curacy -in a large town. It would be very different from Horton. He would be -under the orders of a very well-known clergyman, a great organiser, a -man who was very absolute in his parish, instead of being free to do -almost anything he pleased, as under Uncle Hugh’s mild sway. And he -would have a great deal of work, but within bounds and limits, so that -he would know what was expected from him, without having the general -responsibility of everything. And though he would be under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> rector, -yet he would be over several younger curates, and in his way a sort of -vice-bishop too. “But you must remember,” he said, “that we shall have -to live in a street without any garden, with very little fresh air. It -will be quite town, not even like a suburb—nothing but stone walls all -round you.”</p> - -<p>Mary’s countenance fell. “Oh, Harry! that will not be good for the -children.”</p> - -<p>“I believe there is a park in which the children can walk,” he said, -upon which Mary brightened once more.</p> - -<p>“In that case, I don’t mind the other things,” she said, rocking softly -in her chair; “but, Harry, how shall you like to be dictated to, and -told everything that you have to do?”</p> - -<p>“I should like anything,” he said, “that gave you a little more comfort, -my poor Mary. There is two hundred and fifty a year——”</p> - -<p>He said it with solemnity, as was right—“Two hundred and fifty a year.” -Few are the curates who rejoice in such an income. Mary brought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> her -chair down upon the floor with a sound which but lightly emphasised her -astonishment and awe. These feelings were so strong in her mind that -they had to be expressed before pleasure came.</p> - -<p>“And you really have this offered to you, Harry? <i>offered</i>, without -looking for it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the curate, with the hush and wonder of humility, feeling -that he could not account for such a piece of good fortune.</p> - -<p>“That shows,” cried she, “how much you are appreciated, how you are -understood. Oh, Harry! the world is wonderfully kind and right-feeling, -after all.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “sometimes; there are a great many kind people in the -world. And you don’t mind it, my darling? you don’t mind leaving Horton -and all your relations, and the neighbourhood you have lived in all your -life?”</p> - -<p>“Mind it!” she cried, and paused a little, and dried her eyes, which -were full. “Harry,” she said, with a little solemnity, “I think when -people marry and have a family of their own, it is always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> a little like -the beginning of a new world; don’t you think so? Everything is changed. -It seems natural to go to a new place, to make a real new start, more -natural than to stay where one has always been. Then, when they grow up, -there will be openings for the boys; and Hetty will be able to get a -good education. Mind it! I am sure it is the right thing.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad, dear. I feared you might have doubts about leaving the -parish.”</p> - -<p>“After all,” said Mary, “we have done everything we could for the -parish; and perhaps a little novelty would be good for them now. Uncle -Hugh will be very particular in choosing a very good man to succeed you. -And we have done everything we could; perhaps a new curate who is a -novelty may be better for the parish too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_148.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_148.jpg" width="290" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FIRST CHANGE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE was a good deal of difficulty made among the relations about this -removal. The ladies particularly were very decided on the subject. Who -would look after Mary? who would see that she did not do too much, that -she took proper nourishment, that she had from time to time a new gown, -if she went away? “She will never think of these things for herself,” -said Mrs. Prescott at the Hall to Mrs. Prescott at the Rectory. “She -will give everything to the children. She will think of him and them, -and never of herself.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t see what we can do,” said the clergyman’s wife. “We cannot -keep them here<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> against their will. It is a far better income than Hugh -can afford to give. And with children coming so fast, they will soon -have to think of education and all that. I don’t like it any more than -you do,” added the clerical lady, “but what can we do?”</p> - -<p>They, however, all felt that Mary’s satisfaction in the change was -ungrateful and almost unnatural.</p> - -<p>“You will never know the advantages you have had till you go away,” her -aunt said to her. “You have always had some one to refer to, some one to -take you out a little and make you forget your cares. But among -strangers it will be different. You don’t know how different it will -be.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps Mary was a little ungrateful. She did not estimate at their due -value the dinners at the Hall to which she and the curate had often gone -quite unwillingly, though the givers of these entertainments thought it -was a great thing for the young couple to have somebody who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> always -ready to ask them. Young couples are apt to be ungrateful in this way, -to think little of the home invitations, and to prefer their own company -to that of their relatives; and Mary had not been better than others in -this respect. She and Mr. Asquith had said to each other that it was a -bore when they went to the Hall to dine. They had said to each other -that their evenings at home were much more delightful. Though Mary at -this period would not have believed it possible, yet there were moments -in later years when they would have found it very agreeable to return to -those old dinners at the Hall: but of that she was at present quite -unaware. She was, indeed, it must be allowed, a little too exultant and -happy about her move. To think that this advancement had been offered to -the curate, such an important post, so much superior to anything that -could have been hoped for at this early stage, elated her beyond -measure. And the increased income was a great thing. Giving up at once, -and with great ease, the idea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> of training young servants to such -perfection that people should come far and near to compete for a maid -who had been with Mrs. Asquith, which was her first ideal, Mary rejoiced -in the prospect of getting a real servant, a woman who knew her work, “a -thorough good maid-of-all-work,” she said with importance, as if she had -been speaking of a groom of the chambers. “Oh, the relief it will be -just to tell her what has to be done, without having to show her -everything!” Mrs. Asquith said.</p> - -<p>“But you used to think it would be so much better to train one to your -own ways,” the curate replied, not being used to so rapid a change of -principle.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I have learned something myself since then,” said Mary. And so she -had—the first lesson in life, which has so many and such hard lessons, -especially for those who study in the school of poverty. Poor Mary -thought her troubles were over now. She even formed dreams of having a -little nursemaid to wheel out the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> perambulator, Two hundred and fifty -eked out by that forty-five of her own! Why, it was a princely income; -and privation and discomfort, she fully believed, were now to be things -of the past.</p> - -<p>There was some difficulty in getting the furniture transported to the -new place, for some of it was very heavy and large, having come direct, -as has been said, from the lumber rooms and unused part of the Hall. The -curate proposed with diffidence that these lordly articles should be -sold, and others more suitable bought, to save the expense of carriage; -but Mary was shocked by the suggestion. “They are all presents,” she -said; “we couldn’t, oh, we couldn’t, Harry, without hurting their -feelings. It would look as if we thought those things not good enough -for us that were good enough for them.”</p> - -<p>“But they were not good enough for them, or they would not have been -given to us,” said the curate, a speech which he repented immediately, -for Mary would not have such a reproach thrown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> upon her relations; and -her husband ate his words and explained that it was because the great -mahogany sideboard, etc., were too good for a curate’s little house that -he wished to dispose of them, which mended matters. And even now -everybody was very kind. Uncle Hugh insisted on adding twenty pounds to -the last quarter’s income for travelling expenses, which, considering -that his curate was deserting him, was liberal indeed; and the Squire -was not behind in liberality. There was perhaps a little of the feeling -on the part of the richer relations that they were thus washing their -hands of Mary, setting her up once for all, so that she never could have -any excuse for saying that her mother’s brothers had not done their duty -by her. Neither of these kind men, who were really fond of her in their -way, would have said this even to themselves. But it must be remembered -that she had chosen for herself, and contrary to their advice, and that -she had been fully warned of the poverty which was likely to be her lot, -and that they could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> always stand between her and its penalties. But -if this was their feeling, they were at least very kind and liberal in -this final setting out, which also was her own doing or her husband’s -doing, and no way suggested by any desire of theirs to get rid of her. -And her aunt and the girls urged upon her the necessity of writing, and -keeping them fully informed of all that happened. “Write every week,” -said Mrs. Prescott at the Hall; “if you don’t make a habit of it, you -will fall out of it altogether. Now, Mary, remember, once a week.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t let us hear of the new babies only through the newspapers,” said -Mrs. Prescott at the Rectory.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aunt John, of course I shall write every week, or oftener. Oh, Aunt -Hugh, how could you suppose such a thing? and perhaps there will be no -more babies,” Mary said.</p> - -<p>She was a little tearful as she bade them all good-bye, remembering -then, with a touch of compunction, how kind they had always been; but -all the same she was radiant, setting out upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> life for the first time, -setting out fairly upon the new world, upon her own career, without any -of the old traditions. Heretofore, though she had attained the dignity -of marriage and maternity, Mary had not felt the greater splendour of -independence. Now she was going out with no head but her husband, and no -beaten paths in which she must tread. They were going to trace their own -way through the world, their own way and that of their children, the way -of a new family, a new house, a new nation and tribe, distinct among the -other tribes, not linked on, a subsidiary sept to the tribe of the -Prescotts. Perhaps there was a little ingratitude in this, too, as there -is in every erection of a new standard; but they did not see it from -that point of view. She was radiant in the glory of her separate -beginning, glad to throw off the thraldom of natural subjection, just as -they were perhaps glad to wash their hands of her and her concerns. -Neither expressed the feeling, or would have acknowledged it; but it was -a natural feeling enough on both sides.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span></p> - -<p>John was the last of the Prescotts to bid his cousin good-bye. He came -in at a very inappropriate moment, when all the things were packed, and -the children were having their hats and hoods tied on, and making a -great noise in inarticulate baby excitement, delighted with the -commotion. He strolled in at this moment probably because it was the -worst he could have chosen, and stood looking at the emptied and -desolate cottage, and the family all in their travelling dresses, -waiting for the carriage which was coming from the Hall to take them to -the station. “I’ve come to thay good-bye,” said John, looking all about -him, as if with a desire to see whether they were carrying any of the -fixtures away.</p> - -<p>“Oh, John, how kind of you,” said Mary, “though we are in such a -confusion: there is not a chair to ask you to sit down in.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to thit down,” said John. And he stood for a little longer -gazing round him until Mr. Asquith had gone out to look for the -carriage, which was late—or at least, so they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> thought in their -anxiety, to be in good time for the train. This appeared to be what John -wanted, for he said more quickly than usual, “I don’t want to thit down; -I want to thay thomething before you go away.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Cousin John? Oh, I am in such a confusion——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you are in a great confuthion,” said John solemnly; and then he -added after another pause, “if you should ever want anything down -there,” pointing with his thumb vaguely over his shoulder, “write to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you, Cousin John; but we sha’n’t want anything, I hope. Oh, -there’s the carriage,” Mary cried; “I hear it at last.”</p> - -<p>John stood by gravely shaking his head, his mouth a little open, his -moustache drooping. “Thingth are always wanted,” he said solemnly. -“Write to <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>Mary recounted this little incident to her husband after they had -established themselves comfortably in the railway carriage, and had -waved their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> hands for the last time to the people assembled to bid them -good-bye, and were dashing along over the country, a family detached and -set afloat in the world, a new race setting forth to conquer the earth. -A sort of atmosphere of excitement, of elation, of novelty, and -enthusiasm was about them, so that they were a little sorry for the -homelier people going about quietly, looking out of the windows of calm -country houses, standing at cottage doors, all in their ordinary way. To -be so far out of their ordinary way, in such a rush and whirl of -unaccustomed sensation, seemed to them a superiority—an elevation such -as the dwellers in every-day life might well be envious of. Mary told -her husband about John, and they both laughed, in their superiority of -happiness, at the awkward good fellow who had thought it right to make -this overture, which it was so little likely they would ever take -advantage of. Mary herself laughed, she could not help it: but she said -“Don’t laugh at him, Harry; it was a kind thought, a little out of -place, perhaps, but we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> must not judge him by ordinary rules. He may be -silly, but he is so kind. Don’t! It hurts me when you laugh at John;” -but she laughed herself just a little, softly, under her breath.</p> - -<p>“I am not laughing at him,” said the curate; “he is by far the best of -the lot, and worth a dozen of that Percy you all make such a fuss about; -but I don’t think you’ll write to him to ask his help—at least, I hope -not.”</p> - -<p>“Harry!” she said with indignation, as if the mere idea of wanting help -at all, she his wife, and he the senior curate of St. John’s, Radcliffe, -was a suggestion so ridiculous as almost to be an offence. And in this -spirit they pursued their happy journey across England to the other side -of the kingdom, with, not their flocks and herds, like the patriarchs, -but what comes to the same thing, their furniture and their boxes and -their children, to settle down in the well-watered plain, in the land -flowing with milk and honey, in which their career and their -surroundings were to be all their own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></p> - -<p>I cannot follow all the details of their history step by step. St. -John’s, Radcliffe, did not turn out to be paradise, nor did Mary find -boundless capabilities in two hundred and fifty pounds a year. After the -first twelvemonth, the cares of life began again to make themselves -felt, and fatigue and occasional low spirits chequered their career -which nevertheless they still felt to be a fine career. They stayed six -years altogether in this place, and left it for what was supposed to be -a much better position, with an increased number of children and -considerable cheerfulness, though not perhaps with the same elation -which had characterised their first setting out. The second post the -curate obtained was that of <i>locum tenens</i> to an invalid rector, and -hopes were expressed, that in case of good service, if the rector should -die, the patron’s choice would most probably fall upon the temporary -incumbent. The prospect was delightful, though sufficiently tempered by -doubt to make Mr. Asquith hesitate about relinquishing St. John’s. But -then it is an understood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> thing that curates should not consider -themselves permanent incumbents; and there were evidences that the -rector would like a change, though he would not send so deserving a man -with so large a family away. The way the family went on increasing was -wonderful, was almost criminal, some people said. Only poor people, and -poor clergymen above all, permitted themselves such expansion; and what -was to become of all those helpless little things, spectators asked who -never attempted to solve their own question. Nevertheless, they got on -somehow as large families do. Mary had always a smile and thanksgiving -for every new-comer, considering it as a gift of God, and thinking it -hard that the poor little intruder should not have a welcome. And that, -I confess, is my idea too, though it is a little out of fashion. But -life was not much of a holiday under such circumstances, as will be -easily understood; and Mary learnt a great many lessons, and went on -learning, and had to contradict herself and change her mind over and -over again as the years went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> on. She had begun bravely to write every -week, as her aunt charged her; but gradually that good habit had fallen -into disuse; and as the Asquiths moved from one place to another, they -lost sight of their relations, hearing from them only once in a way, -when anything remarkable happened, and at last coming to the pitch that -they never heard at all. In sixteen years, which is the time at which I -take up my curate and his Mary in their daily life again, a great many -things had happened. “The girls” at Horton had both married, one a -Frenchman, who took her to live abroad; another an officer in India. The -old people at the Hall were both dead. Uncle Hugh was an invalid, living -mostly in Italy for his health. And all that belonged to Mary’s youthful -life had fallen out of sight. This was the state of affairs in the -curate’s house, when Hetty, the eldest girl, the best child that ever -was born, reached her sixteenth birthday: a day which was celebrated by -a proposal at once exciting, fortunate, and painful, as shall be now set -forth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_163.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_163.jpg" width="363" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE ELDEST CHILD.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span>ETTY was sixteen that day. There were nine younger than she was. When -these words are said, coupled with the fact already told that Hetty was -the best child that ever was born, they may not throw much light upon -her character—and yet they will show with tolerable distinctness what -her external position was. She was the best little nurse, the best -housemaid, the most handy needle-woman, the most careful little -housekeeper in all Summerfield, which, as everybody knows, is a suburb -of the great town of Rollinstock, in the middle of England. She could -make beef-tea and a number of little invalid dishes, better, and more -quickly and more neatly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> than any one else that ever was known, for, -naturally, her mother was often in a condition to want a little care; -and the children had every childish malady under the sun, all of them -together, in the most friendly, comfortable way, and never were any the -worse. Something defended them which does not defend little groups of -two or three in richer nurseries. They sickened and got well again, as a -matter of course, whenever there was any youthful epidemic about. They -were altogether quite an old-fashioned family, having all the complaints -that children ought to have, but remaining impervious to all the -imperfections of drainage and all the dangers of brain exhaustion. Their -blood was never poisoned, nor their nerves shattered. They got ill and -got well again, as children used to do in old days. And Hetty, without -ever setting foot in a hospital or having any instruction, was one of -those heaven-born little nurses who used to flourish in novels and -poetry, and who, as a matter of fact, were found in many families in -those days when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> it was the fashion to believe that it was a woman’s -first duty to serve and care for those who were her own. Hetty was not -aware of any individual existence of hers apart from her family. They -were all one, and she was the eldest, which is a fact confusing, -perhaps, to the arithmetical faculties, but quite easy to the heart.</p> - -<p>The family, by this time, was at its fourth or fifth removal. Mr. -Asquith had not got the living when the invalid rector died to whom he -was <i>locum tenens</i>; and if his heart ever grew sick of his toils and -poorly rewarded labour, it was at the moment when the family had to turn -out of the nice old-fashioned rectory which they had been allowed to -occupy during that period of expectation. For one moment the curate had -asked himself what was the use of it all, and had said, in the -bitterness of his heart, that his work never had time to come to -anything, and that all the fond hopes of doing good, and bettering the -poor, and helping the weak, with which he had set out in life, had come -to nought. Women are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> perhaps not so apt to come to such a conclusion, -and though Mary was aware, too, of many a defeat and downfall, she did -her best to console him. “And then there are the children,” she said. -The poor man, at that moment, felt that the children were the last -aggravation of his trouble, so many helpless creatures to be dragged -after him wherever he had to go. He looked at the hand which his wife -had put upon his to comfort him. What a pretty hand it had once been! -and now how scarred and marked with work, its pretty whiteness gone, its -texture spoiled, the forefinger half sewed away, the very shape of it, -once so taper and delicate, lost. “Oh,” he said, “what a hard life I -have brought upon you, Mary! To think if I had only had more command of -myself, you might never have known any trouble!”</p> - -<p>Mary replied with a shriek, “Do you mean if we had never married? I -think you have gone out of your senses, Harry.”</p> - -<p>“I think I almost have, with trouble,” said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> poor man. And yet, -after all, his trouble was not half hers. It was she who had to bear the -children, and nurse them, and have all the fatigue of them; it was she -who had to scheme about the boys’ shoes and their schooling, and how to -get warm things for the winter, and to meet the butchers and bakers when -they came to suggest that they had heavy payments to make: and to bear -all these burdens with a smile, lest <i>he</i> should break down. When she -had sent him out, frightened into better spirits by the ridiculous -absurdity of the suggestion that they might never have married (which -was much the same as saying that this world might never have been -created; and that, no doubt, would have saved a great deal of trouble), -Mary made her little explosion in her turn. “It is much papa knows!” she -cried. “I wonder if he had our work for a day or two what he would think -of it. And now we shall have to pack into a small house again, where he -can have no quiet room for his study. Oh, Hetty, what shall we do? What -shall we do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Hetty kissed her mother, with soft arms round her neck. “We must just do -the best we can, mamma,” Twelve-years-old said, “and don’t you notice -nothing turns out so bad as it seems?” added the little philosopher. -Hetty, like her mother before her, had a wholesome love of change, and a -persistent hope in the unknown. And on the whole, barring their little -breakings down, they all appeared with quite cheerful faces in their new -place; and life turned out always to be livable wherever they went. The -spectacle of their existence was a much more wonderful one to spectators -than to themselves; for the lookers-on did not know the alleviations, -the dear love among them, which was always sweet, the play of the -children, which was never kept under by any misfortune, the household -jests and pleasantries. They got a joke even out of the visits of the -butcher and baker, those awful demands which it was so difficult to -meet, and called the taxman Mr. Lillyvick, and made fun of the -coal-merchant. And then, somehow or other, the kind heavens<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> only knew -how, everybody was paid in the long run, and life was never unsweet.</p> - -<p>And now Hetty was sixteen. She was growing out of the lankness of early -girlhood into a pretty creature—pretty with youth, and sweetness, and -self-unconsciousness, and that exquisite purity of innocence which does -not know what evil is. I am not aware that she had a single feature -worth any one’s notice. Her eyes were as clear as two little stars, but -so are most eyes at sixteen. She was not what her mother had been, but -rather what all good mothers would wish their children to be: something -a little more than her mother, mounted upon the stepping-stone of Mary’s -cheerful troubled existence to the next grade, with something in her -Mary had not, perhaps got from her father, perhaps, what I think most -likely, straight out of heaven. Mary had not been at all afraid of life, -out of sweet ignorance and want of thought; but Hetty knew it, and was -not afraid. She had her dreams, like every creature of her age, her -thoughts of what she would do and be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> when her hour came; but they never -involved the winning of anything, save perhaps rest and comfort for -those she loved. To Hetty life was a very serious thing. She knew -nothing at all of its pleasures,—probably the defect in her, if she had -a defect (and she must have had, for everybody has), was that she -despised these pleasures. When she read in her story-books of girls -whose dreams were of balls and triumphs, and who were angry with fate -and the world when they did not obtain their share of these delights, -Hetty would throw back her head with disdain. “I am sure girls are not -like that,” she would say.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Hetty, girls are like that!” Mary would reply. “I remember -crying my eyes out because Anna and Sophie went to the hunt ball without -me.”</p> - -<p>This would generally lead to recollections of the house which Mary now -called, with a sigh, “my dear old home,” and of all the Prescotts, “the -girls,” and dashing Percy, and “kind old John.” The children had all -heard of Cousin John: how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> his eyeglass was always dropping from his eye -(so well known was this trait in the family that little Johnny had got -into the trick of it, and would stick a piece of paste-board in his -little eye, which when it fell always produced a laugh), and his light -moustache drooping at the corners, and his lisp, and how he said “Write -to me,” if anything was ever wanted.</p> - -<p>“And did you ever write to him, mamma?” the children would cry. And then -Mary would explain that she had never written so often as she ought, and -impress the lesson upon them always to keep on writing when they might -happen to be away, or they were sure to be sorry for it afterwards. “But -did you write when you wanted anything?” said Janey, the second -daughter, who was very inquisitive.</p> - -<p>“No, of course mother didn’t. As if we were going to take things from -relations, like the Browns!” cried Harry, with a flush of scorn. Harry -was a very proud boy, who suffered by reason of the short sleeves of his -jacket and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> short legs of his trousers, as none of the rest did. -Mary shook her head at this, and said there was nothing wrong in taking -things from relations when they were kind.</p> - -<p>“But I never did,” she said. “Sometimes I have thought I ought to have -done it; but I never did. He married, and I never heard anything of him -afterwards, and <i>she</i> was a stranger to me. It was that chiefly that -kept me back. I have not heard anything of him for about a dozen years. -And whether he has sold Horton, or what has become of it, I don’t know. -It is such a wrong thing not to write,” she said, returning to her -moral; “be sure you always keep up the habit of writing whenever you go -away.”</p> - -<p>This, however, has kept us a long time from Hetty’s birthday. Mr. -Asquith had quite recently settled at Summerfield, the western suburb of -Rollinstock, at the time when Hetty completed her sixteenth year. I say -settled, for it was only now that our curate ceased to be a curate, and -became, not, alas! rector or vicar, but incumbent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> of the new district -church lately built in that flourishing place. It was a flourishing -church also, and everything promised well; but as the endowment was very -small, and the incumbent’s income was dependent upon a precarious -addition of pew-seats, offertories, etc., it was not a very handsome one -for the moment, though promising better things to come. And the fact -that he was independent, subject to no superior in his own parish, was -sweet to a man who had been under orders so long. This beginning was -very hopeful in every way. And Mr. Asquith had the character of being a -very fine preacher, likely to bring all the more intellectual residents -of the place, the great railway people—for the town was quite the -centre of an immense railway system—and all the engineers and persons -who thought something of themselves, to his church. This prospect -encouraged them all, though perhaps the income was not very much better -than that of a curacy. And there were good schools for the boys. The one -thing that Mary sighed after was something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> of the higher education, of -which everybody talks nowadays, for Hetty. But perhaps it is wrong to -call it the higher education. No Greek nor even Latin did Mary desire -for her daughter—these things were incompatible with her other -duties—but a little music, a little of what had been called -accomplishments in Mary’s own day! In all likelihood these things would -have done Hetty no manner of good,—no, nor the Latin either, nor even -Greek. There are some people to whom education, in the common sense of -the word, is unnecessary. But Mary had a mother’s little vanity for her -child. Hetty was but a poor performer on the piano; and her mother -thought she had a great deal of taste, if it could but be cultivated. -But music lessons are dear, especially in a town where rich mercantile -folk abound. Alas! the boys’ education was a necessity; the girls had to -go to the wall.</p> - -<p>The schoolroom tea was a very magnificent meal on Hetty’s birthday. -Sixteen seemed a great age to the children. It was as if she had -attained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> her majority. Mary had got her a new white frock for the -occasion <i>made long</i>. It was her first long dress, her toga, her robe of -womanhood. And there was a huge cake, largely frosted over with sugar, -if not very rich inside, out of regard for the digestion of the little -ones. And they were all as happy over this tea as if it had been a -sumptuous meal, with champagne flowing. They had not finished when Mr. -Rossmore was announced, who was the Vicar of Rollinstock and a great -personage. Mr. Rossmore was very kind; he was fond of children, and -liked, as he said, to see them happy. And he sent a message from the -drawing-room (in which there were still lingerings of the old Horton -furniture), into which he had been ushered solemnly, to ask if he might -be allowed to share the delights of the children’s tea. He looked round -upon them all with eyes in which there were regrets (for he was that -strange thing a clergyman without any children of his own), and at the -same time that wonder, which is so general with the spectators of such -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> sight, how it was that they could be happy on so little, and how the -parents could look so lighthearted with such a burden on their -shoulders—ten children, and the eldest sixteen to-day!</p> - -<p>“It is very appropriate that it should be Miss Hetty’s little fête,” -said Mr. Rossmore, “for it is to her, or at least to you about her, that -my visit really is intended.”</p> - -<p>“To Hetty!” her mother cried, with a voice which was half astonishment -and half dismay, Mr. Rossmore was a widower, and the horrible thought -crossed Mary’s mind, Could he have fallen in love with the child? could -he mean to propose to her? Awful thought! A man of fifty! She looked at -him with alarmed eyes.</p> - -<p>“For Hetty?” said Mr. Asquith tranquilly. He thought of parish work, of -schools, or some of the minor charities, in which the Vicar might wish -Hetty to take a part. And the children, feeling in the midst of their -rejoicings that something grave had suddenly come in, looked up with -round eyes. Janey edged to the end of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> table to listen; for whatever -was going on, Janey was always determined to know.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Mary tremulously, “it would be better to bring Mr. -Rossmore his cup of tea to the drawing-room, now that he has seen you -all in the midst of your revels. For this noise is enough to make any -one deaf who is not used to it, like papa and me.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_177.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_177.jpg" width="106" height="237" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_178.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_178.jpg" width="375" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>A CONFERENCE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HEY all sat down solemnly upon the old chairs, in their faded paint and -gilding, with their old seats in fine embroidered work, which had been -so handsome in their day, and still breathed of grandparents and an -ancestral home. The Asquiths’ drawing-room had always been rather -heterogeneous, with some things in it which money could not buy, and -which they thought very little of, and some that were to be had cheap -anywhere, for which, having acquired them by the sweat of their brow, -they cared a great deal. They did not remark these contrarieties, having -so many other things to think of, but Mr. Rossmore did, and wondered how -certain articles came to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> be there, sometimes asking himself how people -with so many graceful old things about them could endure the vulgar new, -sometimes what right the purchasers of the vulgar new could have to that -beautiful old. He did not know anything about their history, but only -that they had a very large family of nice children, and were in -consequence poor. They did not themselves say much of their poverty, but -the people about did, the chief people in the parish, and especially the -district ladies, who were disturbed by it, and wondered, not inaudibly, -whether it was possible for the poor Asquiths to give so many children -enough to eat. It was this inquiry, very much urged upon him, that had -brought Mr. Rossmore here to-day.</p> - -<p>He was seized with a little timidity when he began to speak. Something -in Mary’s look, he could not have told what, an air of dignity, a -half-alarm lest something should be said to her which should be -unpalatable or offensive, caught and startled him. He could see that the -poor incum<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span>bent’s wife was afraid of being affronted or put in an -uncomfortable position by what he was about to say: and in the little -gleam of light that thus seemed to fall upon her, Mr. Rossmore began to -perceive something more in Mrs. Asquith than the mere parson’s wife, -with a large family, accustomed to all the shifts of poverty. He became -in his turn a little alarmed and nervous, wondering if he should offend -them, wondering if——. But he reflected that no reasonable person could -have any right to be offended with such a proposal as that he was about -to make, and further, that if the Asquiths preferred their pride to the -real interests of their children, it was a very poor sort of pride, and -not one to be respected. He took courage accordingly, and cleared his -throat.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will not think what I am going to say impertinent, Mrs. -Asquith. I hope I may not be making a mistake. If I am, I am sure I may -throw myself on your charity to forgive me—for I mean anything but -offence.”</p> - -<p>“Offence!” said Mr. Asquith. “I am certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> of that: and my wife is not -a touchy person to take offence.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you what it is without more ado,” Mr. Rossmore said. “I -don’t know the people myself, but my brother, who has had to do with the -lady in the way of business, has written to me about it. I may be making -a mistake,” he repeated. “Perhaps you have no such intentions for your -children. Miss Hetty perhaps——. But I must tell you what it is. Mrs. -Asquith”—he faced towards Mary, for it was of her that he was -afraid—“there is a young lady wanted to be with a child in the -country—oh, not as a governess: dear me, no, not the least in the world -as a governess. This is what it is. There is a little girl in the -country, a great heiress, I believe, a little delicate—not queer—no, I -don’t think she is at all queer. She has a governess with her, an -excellent person, very accomplished, a good musician, and speaking all -the languages. What they want is a young lady a little older, but not -too old to be a companion to the child, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> would share all her -lessons, and get every advantage, and a salary besides of fifty pounds a -year. It is quite an unusual offer, quite a prize for any one who could -accept it. I hope, Mrs. Asquith, that you will not think I am taking too -much upon me. I thought if you ever contemplated—if, in short, you had -thought of—of school or finishing lessons or anything of that sort——”</p> - -<p>“Why should you apologise? You are making us the kindest offer. Mary, -surely you must feel with me that Mr. Rossmore——”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you are very kind,” cried Mary, “oh, very kind; nothing could -be more kind.” There was a little confusion about her, as if she had -received a blow: and she was flushed and uneasy. It was something of a -shock. To think of Hetty going—to a situation: going—to be somebody’s -companion! It gave Mary a little sick shock at her heart. But she was a -sensible woman, and she had not come thus far on the path of life -without learning that pride was a thing to be put at once under the foot -of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> mother of a family. She regained after a moment entire -possession of herself. “It is a little startling to think of Hetty, such -a child as she is, going away, earning money,” she said, with a quiver -of a smile. “It seems so strange, for a girl too. And to lose her out of -the house will be something, something——. But, Mr. Rossmore, you are -very, very kind. I take it as the greatest kindness. It sounds as if it -might be—the very thing for Hetty. Harry, don’t you think——”</p> - -<p>What with the sudden shock and all the complications of feeling -involved, Mrs. Asquith had hard ado not to cry. She laughed a little -instead, and looked towards her husband. It was the first time it had -ever been suggested to her that her children were not to be always at -her side. Mr. Asquith divined a good deal, but not all, that was in her -mind.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” he said, “you are the only person to decide such a matter. -Nobody ever understands a girl like her mother. You were anxious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> about -her music, and that she should learn something. To me it seems a -wonderful chance, but it is you who must be the judge. Hetty,” he said, -turning to his brother clergyman with a smile, “is part of herself.”</p> - -<p>“I can well imagine that; one can see what she is; that is why I came -here at once, for if it does not shock you to think of a separation at -all, it <i>is</i> a wonderful chance. I never heard in my experience of -anything better. The little girl is only ten, but very forward for her -age; and Miss Hetty is so used to children.”</p> - -<p>“And to get all we want for her, and be paid into the bargain;” cried -Mary, with a nervous laugh. “We are very much obliged to you, Mr. -Rossmore. I am sure Hetty will not hesitate for a moment; and neither do -I.”</p> - -<p>“And where is this wonderful child?” said Mr. Asquith, “and why is she -in want of a companion? and where does she live?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know the whole story. My brother is in the law. All sorts of -romances seem to come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> into his hands. So far as I can make out, both -parents are living, the father mad, shut up in a lunatic asylum; the -mother, who has all the money, is abroad. I fancy she’s an American, -smitten with the love of an old family and an old house.”</p> - -<p>“It is an old family, then, and an old house.”</p> - -<p>“They say, one of the most perfect specimens of an old English house, a -long way off, though—in Redcornshire—a place called Horton.”</p> - -<p>Mary uttered a cry. She had thought somehow, she could not tell how, -that this name was coming. Mr. Asquith, too, cried, “Horton!” with the -wildest amazement, for no presentiment had visited his breast.</p> - -<p>“You know the place?” their visitor said.</p> - -<p>Mary gave her husband a warning look.</p> - -<p>“We knew it very well in our youth, oh, very well. It is startling to -hear of it so suddenly. And what is the name of the people who are there -now? It is long, long since I have heard.”</p> - -<p>“Their name is Rotherham,” said Mr. Rossmore.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary gave her husband once more a look—of mingled relief and -disappointment. And then it was decided that Hetty should be called in -to hear what she thought of it, and then that Mr. Rossmore should write -to his brother the lawyer to say that the wished-for girl had been -found. It was all over so quickly, before any one could realise what had -taken place. Hetty on being questioned had looked at her mother, and -said, “If you can do without me, mamma,” with a flush of sudden -excitement. She had not hesitated or expressed any alarm. For even Hetty -was not impervious to that charm of novelty which is so delightful to -youth. There rushed into her young soul all at once a desire to go out -to these fresh fields and pastures new, to see the world, to judge for -herself what life was like; and then there was the delightful thought -that to her, Hetty, only a girl, whom nobody had thought of in that -light, should come the privilege—to her the first of all the family—of -earning money, of helping at home. Hetty’s dreams had taken that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> shape -almost from her childhood, though she had never known how they were to -be carried out. Her little romance had been to pay all the bills -secretly, so that mamma, when she set out on that hard task of -apportioning so much to each, should find, to her amazement, that all -had been settled! She had told this dream to Janey, and the two had -discussed it often, but never had hit upon a way in which it could be -done. Hetty had thought she might perhaps have done it by writing -stories, but her first attempt in that way had not been a success. And -the girls had generally ended by dwelling on mamma’s wonder and joy when -she found all the bills paid, and the unusual happiness that would -succeed of having a little money and nothing to do with it, and being -able to buy a hundred things which at present they had to do without. -But now fifty pounds a year! Hetty, it must be allowed, did not take -“the advantages” upon which Mr. Rossmore had laid so much stress, and -which had been her mother’s inducement, much into account.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> She was not -enthusiastic about the lessons. To play the piano better would be -pleasant, but it was evident she was not a musician born, for she was -without enthusiasm even about that. What she did think of was the glory -of being able to help and the pleasure of the novelty: a sensation -intensified by feeling, by the thrill of going out into the world like a -girl in a novel, and tempered by a sinking of heart which would come -upon her when she thought of going away. But at sixteen it is quite -possible to get the good of the anticipated novelty and the sensation of -going out upon the world, and yet forget the preliminary step, which -notwithstanding is of the first necessity, of going away.</p> - -<p>The arrangements were not long of being completed. It appeared that -little Miss Rotherham lived something of a cloistered life in the great -old house. Her mother was away at the other end of the world, and had -business or something else to enforce her absence for a year or more, -during which time her little girl was under very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> close regulations. She -was not to go outside of the park, except now and then for a drive. She -was never to be left alone. If Miss Hofland, the governess, was off -duty, her young companion was to be with her, and no visitors or any -communication from without were to be allowed. “Extraordinary -precautions to be adopted for a child of ten,” Mr. Rossmore said. “My -brother says there are sufficient family reasons, but does not explain. -Except this mystery, I don’t know that there is anything to find fault -with. The mother is an American. I don’t know that this fact affords any -explanation. Still their manners are a little different from ours.”</p> - -<p>“Not in the way of shutting up their children,” said Mr. Asquith -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>Said Mary, “These regulations don’t trouble me. A child of ten is best -at home. There is plenty of room for her to walk and play in the park, -oh, plenty. You remember, Harry——” There is no telling what -recollections might have been called up had not Mr. Rossmore’s presence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> -checked them. She paused a little, musing, excited, seeing before her -every glade and hollow. “Perhaps the lady is a woman with a system,” she -said. “She may have some plan of her own for making children perfect. I -wonder if Mr. Rossmore knows, Harry—if he knows whether she is related -to the old family?”</p> - -<p>Mary did not know why it was that she made this inquiry timidly through -her husband, as it were at secondhand, instead of inquiring simply as -otherwise she should have done. Mr. Rossmore could give no answer to the -question. He knew nothing about the Prescotts. And it was so long since -they had heard anything, and so much may happen in a dozen years. She -said nothing of her relationship, nor that it was her home to which the -child was thus going as a stranger. If all were strangers there now, -what did it matter? To think that the family had thus disappeared out of -Horton gave her a pang. Rotherham? She had never once heard the name -before. They must be entirely strangers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> foreigners, not even belonging -to the neighbourhood. Since the old race had died away, perhaps it was -better that it should be so. And it was just as well for Hetty that, -since she was going to Horton, she should be kept in this almost -monastic seclusion. For Asquith is not a common name, and people might -inquire and insist on knowing who Miss Asquith was. It was better, -certainly better, that Hetty should not run the risk of -cross-examination from old friends. All things were for the best. And, -after all, it was only for a year.</p> - -<p>Only for a year! While it was a month off, Hetty thought a year nothing -at all. She was even conscious of a thrill of eagerness to meet it, a -desire to hurry on the time. A year in a romantic old house, in a sort -of mediæval retirement, shut in like a princess in a fairy tale! She -almost longed to feel the solitude encircle her, the wind blowing among -the trees, which was the only sound she should hear. But as the time of -her departure approached, Hetty began to change<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> her mind, and the time -of her absence to draw out and become larger and larger, till it took -the proportions of a century. “They will be quite grown up before I come -home,” she said to Mary, bending over the curly heads of the two -youngest, as they lay in their little cribs side by side: and it took -all Hetty’s power of self-control to prevent her from bedewing the -pillows with her tears. Janey said all she could to comfort the exile. -“I wish it was me,” Janey cried, whose eyes were dancing with eagerness. -“Oh, I wish it was me!” The one dreadful thing, however, which made even -Janey acknowledge a pang, was that in four months it would be Christmas, -and Hetty would not be able to come home. What kind of Christmas could -be possible without Hetty? and oh, what would Hetty do alone, with -nobody but a strange little girl of ten and a governess, all by herself -on Christmas Day?</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_192.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_192.jpg" width="129" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_193.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_193.jpg" width="333" height="110" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>GOING AWAY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“Y</span>OU will be sure to write regularly, Hetty, twice a week at the least? -You must not forget; you must never forget.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never, mamma!” cried poor Hetty, with a quiver in her voice.</p> - -<p>“And try if you can hear something about Cousin John. The clergyman is -sure to know. Don’t ask right out, but try what you can discover. You -can say that your mother knew that part of the country, and that you had -heard of the Prescotts. Oh, how careless it was of me not to keep on -writing! You must be very regular, Hetty—twice a week, at the very -least.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not forget, mamma.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Hetty’s poor little face was very pale; her lips were trembling. The -family had come, all but the very little ones, to the railway to see her -off. But the boys were amused with the locomotive, and the girls with -looking at the people; and Hetty felt herself forgotten already. What -would it be when she was really away?</p> - -<p>And then she relapsed into a spasm of weeping when the inevitable moment -came, and the train got into motion. Poor little Hetty! They would all -go back, go home, and the business of every day would go on as before, -while she was flying away into the unknown, with that clang and wild -tumult of sound. Hetty thought she had never realised what a railway -journey was before, the clang as of giants’ hoofs going, the rush and -sweep through the air, as if impelled by some horrible force that could -not be appealed to to stop, or made to understand that you wanted to get -out, to get out and go back again! This was the first thought of her -little scared soul. Horses with a man driving could be made to stop, -but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> this engine never: and what if it should go on, on, to the end of -the world? It seemed so likely, so probable that it might do so, in the -first dreadful sense of the unescapable which overwhelmed the girl’s -mind. Of course when she came to herself she was a quite reasonable -little girl, and knew that this could not be so, and that, as exactly as -is in human possibility, the train would arrive at Horton station, where -she was bound, after stopping at many other stations on the way. And -presently Hetty dried her eyes, and began to look at the country; and -things went a little better with her, until she had another fit of panic -and horror at the end of her journey, when she stepped out, trembling, -all alone, and saw, half with terror, half with pride, the brougham -waiting which was to carry her, behind two sleek and shining horses, in -all the glory of a “private carriage” (a thing Hetty knew nothing of), -to Horton. She had been driven to the station, she was aware, in the -Horton carriage when she went away, a baby, with her parents, and this -know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span>ledge—for it was not a recollection—made everything seem all the -stranger. It was her mother’s home she was going to, and yet such a -strange, unknown place.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Hetty as if she had known it all her life when the old -house came into view. The two wings were a story lower than the centre -of the house, which rose into a high roof, with mansard windows rising -over the stone parapet; from the east wing the ground sloped away, -leaving a rather steep bank of velvet lawn; the other was level with the -flower-garden, and seemed partially inhabited. But the lower windows on -the west side were all blank and closely shuttered. That was the -picture-gallery, Hetty knew, raising its row of long windows above. She -wondered if it still was as mamma had so often described it, with the -Prescotts’ pictures all stately on the walls, her own ancestors, Hetty’s -ancestors, though nobody knew. The carriage drove up to the door, which -did not stand open now, as it had done in mamma’s time; only a large -person, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> black silk gown, came out, with a not very amiable look, -to receive Hetty. “Oh, it’s only the young lady,” she said, with a -slight toss of her head, and bade an attendant maid look after the -little box and bag which contained the girl’s modest requirements. Then, -with a wave of her hand, this grand personage bade Hetty follow, and led -her through the hall and a long passage to a bright room behind, looking -out upon the trimmest of artificial gardens, all cut out in flower-beds, -and still blazing with colour, red geraniums and yellow calceolarias and -asters in all colours, though it was October. The colour and the light -almost dazzled Hetty, after the cool, subdued tones of the hall. Here a -little girl, with her hair in a flood over her shoulders—dark hair, -very much <i>crêpé</i>—sat at the piano, with a tall and slim figure, on -which from top to toe the word “governess” seemed written, seated beside -her. The child went on playing like a little automaton; but the lady -rose when Hetty came timidly in, following the housekeeper. “Here’s the -young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> lady, Miss Hofland,” that personage said, with little ceremony, -and turned away without another word. Miss Hofland was very thin, very -gentle, with a slightly deprecating air. She put out her hand to Hetty, -and gave her an emphatic grasp, which seemed to mean an exhortation to -silence as well as a greeting. “How do you do? Rhoda’s at her lesson,” -she said in a half-whisper, signing to the girl to sit down, which -Hetty, breathless with the oppressive sense of novelty and strangeness, -was very glad to do. She sat down feeling as if she had fallen out of a -different planet, out of another world, while the little girl went on -playing her exercises, with the “One, two, three, four, one, two, three, -four,” of the governess’s half-whispering voice. What a curious scene it -was! Hetty had time to note everything in the room, and to take in the -red and yellow and blue of the flower-beds outside, and the pictures on -the walls, and the trifles on the table, while the stumbling sound of -the piano, now checked to have a passage played over again, now -pounding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_199.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_199.jpg" width="560" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>HOW DO YOU DO, MISS ASQUITH?’<span class="lftspc">”</span> (<i>p. 201.</i>)</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">monotonously with that “One, two, three,” went on and on. Little Miss -Rotherham’s hair was very dark, very much crimped, and standing out in a -bush, very unlike the natural fair locks of the children at home. She -was about the same size as little Mary, Hetty said to herself, but Mary -played better, though she had never had any lessons, and her hair was so -soft, falling with just a soft twist in it, which was natural. But oh, -how much happier Mary must be with all her brothers and sisters. Hetty -ended by saying, “Poor little thing!” to herself quite softly as the -lesson went on.</p> - -<p>When Rhoda got up from her lesson, she came, instructed by the -governess, and gave Hetty her hand, and said, “How do you do, Miss -Asquith?” She had a little dark face, quite in keeping with her dark -hair, and a small person, very slight and straight, not round and plump, -as the Asquiths were at that age. Hetty, who, by reason of her large -family was truly maternal in her way, and knew all about children,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> -regretted instinctively that this little thing was so thin, and wondered -if she were delicate, or if she were getting better of something, which -might account for it. At the same moment a footman brought in tea—a -footman in livery, who seemed to Hetty’s unaccustomed eyes grotesque and -out of place—and then the three proceeded to make acquaintance over -their bread-and-butter.</p> - -<p>“You have had rather a long journey. I fear you must be very tired,” the -governess said.</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” said Hetty. “It is not like walking. In the railway there is -nothing to tire one.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think so? But perhaps you have had a great deal of -travelling?”</p> - -<p>“I never,” said Hetty, the tears coming to her eyes, “was away from home -before.”</p> - -<p>“That is always rather a trial,” said Miss Hofland, sympathetically, -“but I hope you’ll soon feel quite at home with Rhoda and me. We are all -that is here, nothing but Rhoda and me, and the servants of course. We -lead a very quiet life, but you heard of that, no doubt. We take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> our -walk in the park, and we pay great attention to our lessons, oh, great -attention, Miss Asquith. We are working very hard in order to astonish -mamma when she comes back. We think that when she sees the progress that -has been made, she will be very much pleased.”</p> - -<p>At this Rhoda lifted up a somewhat sharp little voice, and declared that -she did not think mamma cared.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how can you say so, my dear child? No one knows how much mothers -care. Perhaps they may not say so to their little girls, but it is the -first wish of their hearts to see their children get on. Isn’t that so, -Miss Asquith? I am sure you know.”</p> - -<p>“It is mamma’s first wish—oh, to have everything she can for the -children,” cried Hetty, the tears, which were so very near her eyes, -coming again.</p> - -<p>“I told you so, Rhoda,” said Miss Hofland, with a little air of triumph.</p> - -<p>Rhoda made no reply. Her soul apparently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> was filled with no thought but -bread-and-butter. There was a precocious gravity and stiffness about her -which half frightened Hetty. It appeared that it was Miss Hofland who -was the nearest her own age, while Rhoda was years beyond them both in -seriousness, learned in all the cares of earth. This impression did not -diminish for the first week of Hetty’s sojourn at Horton. Familiarity -dispelled it a little afterwards, and made her perceive that the child’s -gravity was one of the many marks of shyness, and that the nature -beneath was, after all, like child-nature in general, thoughtless and -changeable, varying to natural gaiety when the sense of strangeness was -overcome. But still there was a shadow upon the little face which not -even shyness could account for. This was partly physical, for the little -girl had immense dark eyes, with long eyelashes, which overshadowed her -little countenance, and partly mental, as if some cloud hung over her, -unknown to the rest of the world. It was not till Hetty had grown -familiar with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> strange secluded life of the place that she knew -anything more. It was a very strange life, the house full of servants, -the imperious housekeeper managing everything as if no one but herself -had to be consulted, and the three simple feminine creatures for whom, -so far as appeared, all this costly household existed, living in their -little spot of space—the morning room, which opened on the garden; the -spare, nicely furnished place in which they dined; the set of bedrooms -on the same side of the house—all these rooms were on the ground floor, -one opening into another. Between Hetty’s room and that of Miss Hofland -ran a passage, but this was the only division. Rhoda’s maid slept in the -room beyond Hetty’s. They were thus altogether separated from the rest -of the house. And so far as the bright tints of a cheerful garden could -give animation, everything in their outlook was bright. Their -sitting-room communicated with a conservatory. They had flowers in -abundance, an aviary of birds among the flowers, and everything sweet -and graceful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> about them. They were like princesses living in an -enchanted garden, their little meals exquisitely cooked and served by -the same magnificent man in livery, wonderful hothouse fruits always -produced for their dessert. To Hetty the wealth seemed boundless that -surrounded her. Was this, she wondered, how country houses were always -kept up? Mamma had said the Prescotts were poor. To be sure, the -Prescotts were here no longer. “But what a change,” she said to herself, -“what a wonderful change for mamma, from Horton to that little house at -home, overflowing with children. Oh, what a change!” Hetty did not -remember that the children had come by degrees, and that gradually the -sphere of existence and all its motives had changed for Mary. The wide -greenness of the park, the giant trees, the pushing aside, as it were, -of the world, so that breathing space and quiet might be secured for -those favourites of fortune, produced a great effect upon Hetty. And to -think that her mother had been brought up amid those shady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> glades and -wide stretches of tranquil greenness! “Oh,” thought Hetty, “what would -she give only to have permission to walk in such a park with the -children now?”</p> - -<p>When she had become quite familiar with this strange life, and had begun -to feel herself, as people say, “at home,” although it was so different, -so very different, so much worse and better than home, Hetty acquired -various scraps of information about the strange household. There were -never any visitors at Horton except the doctor and the clergyman, the -former a young man, very grave and sedate in appearance, who appeared -frequently at the house, and was constantly met by the little party in -their walks in the park, when he seemed to be going or coming from the -Hall, but always stopped to explain that he was on his way to some -distant place, and had taken advantage of the permission he had to take -the short cut across the park. The clergyman, on the other hand, was old -and very cheerful, a gay little white-haired old man, who took tea -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> once a week with Miss Hofland and her charges, and whose visits -were their brightest moments, Mr. Hayman, the rector, was always gay; -the young doctor, whose name was Darrell, was always serious. Except -these two, nobody ever came to the house. This roused little questions -in the mind of Hetty, who was young enough to accept whatever happened -as the common order of affairs. And it was only when Miss Hofland took -the girl into her confidence that any question arose in her mind. Miss -Hofland was older and more alive to the peculiarities of their -cloistered life.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think it is a strange thing, my dear,” she said to Hetty -suddenly, when she had been about a month at Horton, “that a mother -should go away to the end of the world for a whole year, and leave her -only little child all alone in a big house like this?”</p> - -<p>They had been sitting together over the fire for a long time in silence. -Rhoda had gone to bed, the great silence of the wintry park had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> closed -over the house, and there was the darkness of a moonless night, which -seemed somehow to creep into the rooms, and intensify the stillness and -sense of seclusion from all the world. Hetty was much startled by this -question. It took her some time to think what her companion could -mean—a mother at the end of the world, and an only little child all -alone! She looked up surprised, repeating almost unconsciously, “A -mother—at the end of the world!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Miss Hofland; “don’t say you haven’t asked yourself the -same——”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean—Rhoda?” faltered Hetty, feeling as if the suggestion was -in some sort a betrayal of trust.</p> - -<p>“I mean Rhoda’s mother; who else could I mean? Did you ever hear of such -a thing before? There are a great many things I don’t understand about -this house.”</p> - -<p>Hetty gazed once more, but put no answering question, nothing that could -induce the governess to go on. The girl’s fine sense of good faith was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> -shocked. It seemed to be a sort of wickedness and treachery to discuss -the circumstances of the place in which she was living. But all the same -these questions liberated Hetty’s own thoughts. Now that it had been -suggested to her, she too became aware of many wonderings on the eve of -bursting forth. Why? and why? But there was no answer to be had.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_210.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_210.jpg" height="208" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_211.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_211.jpg" width="329" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>FIRESIDE TALK.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“I</span> HAVE been here only six months,” said Miss Hofland. “I am engaged for -a year, like you. I was sent on trial at first to see if the child would -take to me, poor little thing! I didn’t think she could take to anybody: -but I’ve changed my opinion.” She added, “Hetty, she is fond of you.”</p> - -<p>“Poor child!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, poor child! but she is a rich child at the same time, and luckier -a great deal than either you or I.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t say so, Miss Hofland. If you had ever been with us at home, -you would not say any one was happier than me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, so much the better for you. I never pretended to be very -happy. I have no home at all, and I have been teaching children in one -house and another since I was sixteen. I have never had any youth. It is -hard to go on teaching all one’s life, and that not even for somebody -one cares for, but only just for one’s self, to keep the life in one, -which one doesn’t much wish to keep.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Hofland!” Hetty cried.</p> - -<p>“It is quite true, my dear. Why should one? One has to live, because one -has been brought into the world. And then one goes on working, a -stranger everywhere, never with any home just in order to have enough to -eat and clothes to put on. Oh, I have always envied the poor girls, whom -everybody is sorry for, who have to send their money home to their -mothers! It has always been said I was so well off, I had nobody but -myself to think of. Well, don’t let us talk like this. It frightens you, -and it does me no good. My dear, this is a very strange house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is very quiet,” Hetty hazarded: and then felt frightened for what -she had said.</p> - -<p>“Quiet! It wasn’t quiet at one time, I believe, when she first married -him; and now they say he’s mad, and she is away. And why is that doctor -always about, my dear? Don’t you notice how often he is here? The -servants are not always ill, but my belief is that Mr. Darrell is here -every day; and when we meet him in the park, how is it that he’s always -so anxious to explain where he’s going? I don’t understand about that -man.”</p> - -<p>“He looks very nice,” said Hetty, apologetically, feeling that it was -hard to condemn a man who probably was not to blame.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is nice enough. I don’t say anything about his niceness. But why -is he so often here? Mrs. Mills is not a confirmed invalid, but he is -always having long talks with her, and when any one sees them they look -startled. Would you like to hear what I think? I think both Mrs. Mills -and Mr. Darrell are in the secret, and know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> why Mrs. Rotherham is away: -and perhaps Mr. Hayman too.”</p> - -<p>“But then it must be quite right if the clergyman knows it,” said Hetty, -brought up with a faith in clergymen which her companion did not share. -Miss Hofland shook her head.</p> - -<p>“I don’t say it’s right, and I don’t say it’s wrong. I say it’s very -strange. Clergymen know very queer things sometimes. They can’t help it. -Indeed, people who do queer things are very apt in my experience to tell -a clergyman. It seems like getting a sanction to it. If he tells them -not to do it, they don’t mind; they take their own way: but they always -feel a satisfaction in thinking he knows. It shares the responsibility. -He can’t be so very hard upon them after if he has known all the time: -and I daresay some of them think they can persuade God it’s all right, -because the clergyman knows.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Hofland!” cried Hetty again.</p> - -<p>“My dear, I know you are shocked by what I say; and I wouldn’t speak to -you in this way if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> I had any one else to speak to. It is more than -human nature is equal to, to keep quite silent. One can’t help noticing, -you know. I’ve been in a great many houses, and known a great many -family secrets. There is almost always something to find out, but -generally it is quite on the surface; either it is a son who is making -them unhappy, or a girl who has a love affair, or husband and wife don’t -get on: these are the common things. But this place is full of mystery. -Don’t you feel it in the air?”</p> - -<p>“I should never have thought of anything——” said Hetty: and paused, -afraid to seem to reproach her companion, or to say anything that was -not quite true.</p> - -<p>“If I had not put it in your head? I shouldn’t wonder. When I was like -you, I never took any notice. You are not what I call governessy, my -dear: but you would be the same as I am if you went in for my kind of -life. I can’t help noticing now. I find out things without meaning to; -you do when you are in a family without belonging to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> it, and have no -occupation for your mind but to watch, and nobody to say it to. Then -every little thing is an interest, and to put two and two together—— -But I won’t frighten you. Do your people intend you to be a governess, -my dear?”</p> - -<p>This question gave Hetty a still greater shock than all the rest. She -cried, “Oh, I hope not!” in instinctive alarm; then grew very red, and -looked wistfully at her companion, feeling that to repudiate Miss -Holland’s profession in this eager way might be an offence.</p> - -<p>“You would always have your family to fall back upon,” said Miss -Hofland, “and you would be able to help them. If there are so many of -you, it would be your duty to do that. And though it’s not Paradise, -it’s better than marrying a poor curate, and bringing dozens of children -into the world to misery, which is probably what you would do if you -were not a governess. I am not fond of this way of living, but it’s -better than that; at least you have nobody but yourself, and when you -die there’s an end of it. The first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> money I ever laid by was just -enough to bury me. I’ve always kept that safe. I should like to have -things decent, and not to be thrown on charity for my last expenses. And -when that comes, there’s an end of it: that’s a great comfort; nobody -else will be left to trouble and toil on account of me.”</p> - -<p>The governess delivered this little monologue in quite a cheerful tone -of voice, without any appearance of being deeply moved by it; her dismal -philosophy was so unaffected that it had ceased to touch her feeling. -She described this desolate mental condition in tones of steady matter -of fact, while the young creature beside her gazed at her with a dismay -which was speechless. A thousand thoughts ran through Hetty’s mind as -she spoke. To be a governess! would not that be her duty? ought not that -to be her life too? She had never been called on to think of such -questions. There was so much to do at home. It had not occurred to her -that she could even be spared. To help mamma seemed the natural use of -the eldest girl. Now there swept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> through Hetty’s mind a tumult of -confused thoughts and newly-awakened alarms. Ah! who could doubt it? -This was what must, what ought to be, that she who was the eldest should -go out into the world and help the rest. How often had she heard mamma -wondering, calculating how to get the boys the needful indispensable -education, which would be necessary to fit them for making their way; -and it had never occurred to Hetty to say, “Of course I must go and be a -governess, and send home the money.” Was it perhaps because she did not -know enough to teach? But she knew enough for the nursery. She did teach -the little ones at home. And now another thought suddenly leaped into -her young soul. Her mother had sent her because of the “advantages,” -advantages to which Hetty had given so little thought. She perceived it -all now. This was why mamma wanted her to have advantages, that she -might be fitted for the life she would have to adopt, that she might be -clever enough to be a governess! The discovery (as she thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> it) fell -into Hetty’s little heart like lead, and then a flush of shame swept -over her—that she should not have divined it for herself; that she -should not have seen that as the eldest it was her duty to help, and to -help steadily. This was quite different from the little romance of -paying the bills secretly, which had so much delighted her imagination; -as much different as the actual burden of life is from the enthusiasm of -the ideal. It did not inspire her as that had done; on the contrary, it -fell upon her like something crushing and terrible. Not for this year -only, as she had thought—not to go back triumphant with her fifty -pounds, and buy mamma a sealskin, and settle forever at home. Ah, no! -very different. She had left home for good, Hetty said to herself; she -must never think of home again but as a holiday refuge. Her destiny was -like Miss Hofland’s—to live in other people’s houses, to teach other -people’s children, to lay up carefully out of her first earnings enough -to bury her. Oh, dreadful, dreadful thought! All this while Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> -Hofland went on quietly with her talk, not distressed at all by the -miserable provision which she had thought it right to make.</p> - -<p>“You should get up a little earlier to practise, my dear. I shall always -be willing to give you a little more time. Rhoda could do very well -without you for an hour in the afternoon, after dinner, you know. And if -you liked to take up any subject after she has gone to bed?—We might -read a little French, for instance; or German. You don’t know German at -all, do you? I never grudge a little trouble when it’s for a purpose, -and to help on one who has an object. One has more satisfaction in doing -that—helping a comrade, as the men would say—than giving lessons to a -pack of little girls who don’t want to learn, and never will do any good -with it. Should you like to begin German? Well, my dear, I’ll look you -out my old grammars, and we’ll begin to-morrow night.”</p> - -<p>“You are very, very kind, Miss Hofland. What can I ever do for you, to -show my gratitude? Mamma will be so thankful: so—happy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>It went against the grain with Hetty in the first pang of this discovery -to think that mamma would be happy, and yet there was nothing but thanks -and gratitude due to Miss Hofland. The girl was half choked by this -conflict of gratitude and misery, and did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, you must work very hard, and take advantage of all your -opportunities,” said Miss Hofland; “one always regrets it in after life -if one misses a chance. But it’s time now to go to bed. One wise thing -in this hermitage,” she added, “is that they give us such good fires. Is -your fire always good, my dear?” The governess followed Hetty along the -corridor, into which this suite of rooms opened. It was very dimly -lighted, and the two figures with their twinkling candles had a -mysterious effect between the two dark wainscoted walls, which reflected -the flicker of the lights. Miss Hofland went with Hetty into her room, -and looked round it. “Yours is the only French window,” she said; “it -opens into the garden, don’t you know. I prefer the sash-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>windows, they -are much safer. But why don’t they shut your shutters and draw your -curtains, my dear? You must not put up with any neglect.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t like it so dark. I like to see the sky. I can’t breathe -when the curtains are drawn. I am not accustomed to curtains,” said -Hetty, feeling that she was making a confession of poverty. Miss Hofland -gave an approving nod.</p> - -<p>“It is a great deal better for the health,” she said; “still I can’t -sleep unless it is dark, and they keep out the cold in this big house. I -hope you always see that your window is well fastened. I must speak to -Mrs. Mills about it. To live in this queer way, with a regiment of -servants and not to be attended to, would be too absurd. Good-night, my -dear,” Miss Hofland said. Her room was on the other side of the little -passage, which also had a window looking out across the flower-beds of -the parterre to the ghostly depths of the park. It was a moonlight -night, and they both lingered looking out upon the strange, silent -scene. The flower-beds were full of winterly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> chrysanthemums—for it was -by this time November—which drooped their tall heads in the frosty air. -The trees beyond stood up half stripped, showing here and there their -great branches, with a leaf or two fluttering in the wind against the -sky. Miss Hofland opened her own door with a shudder. “How cold it -looks,” she said—“how still and deserted! I am glad everything is snug -and shut up in my room. If I were to look out much longer I should see -ghosts, I know I should. Run away, my dear, and get to bed.”</p> - -<p>Hetty heard the little click of the key which Miss Hofland always turned -at night, a precaution which had amused the girl on her first coming. -“Fancy mamma locking her door!” she had said to herself. But it was -eerie standing by that passage window by herself. She went back to her -room and put down her candle, and took down her hair. Her mother had -always been proud of Hetty’s hair. It was brown and silky, and very -abundant, and, indeed, it was not so very long since it was first -twisted up in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> grown-up way which had made Hetty feel so dignified. -Now that she had attained to that privilege she liked to shake it down, -and feel it about her, rippling over her shoulders. But she had no -leisure for any play that night. Her mind was overwhelmed with her new -thoughts. An entire revelation had been made to her of her duty, of what -girls were born for. To think she should have been so stupid, to suppose -that all that was wanted was helping mamma with the children, mending, -making, overlooking the housework! No, indeed, that was not all. It -would be years before even Harry, the eldest boy, could earn anything; -while Hetty was the eldest of all, and the first claim of duty naturally -came to her. She strayed towards the window, half-undressed, to look out -as people naturally do when they are full of thought, without any regard -even to the moonlight, not thinking of anything outside, absorbed in -those meditations which were not cheerful. The long pale distance -between the trees, the masses of distant shadow, the chrysanthemums -drooping as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> if whispering to each other close at hand, seemed to give a -little air and outlet to the musing of her heart.</p> - -<p>But all at once Hetty gave a smothered cry, and clung to the nearest -solid thing, feeling as if the ground was reeling away from under her -feet. Over the grass, which was damp and sodden with winter dews, -winding among the beds and ranks of chrysanthemums, what was that she -saw? Something black in the moonlight, a moving figure, the sight of -which made her heart stand still. Her eyes seemed to strain out of her -head, her heart to jump into her throat in sudden panic and horror. A -man! Hetty rushed to the door in the first impulse after her senses -returned to her; but then she remembered the key turned in Miss -Hofland’s door; and though she opened her own softly, she closed it -again, and locked it too, in her terror. And then she returned to the -window, drawn as by a spell, to watch that mysterious figure slowly -moving round and round among the drooping winter flowers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_226.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_226.jpg" width="367" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>ALARMS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“H</span>AVE you a headache, my dear? I am sure you have a headache. You are -looking quite ghostly. Poor little thing! you look as if you had not -slept all night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is nothing,” said Hetty. “I didn’t sleep very well, I got off my -sleep somehow.”</p> - -<p>“I know; people talk about the sleep of youth, but I can remember many -nights, when I was a girl like you, when I never closed my eyes. Take -your tea, my dear, and it will refresh you. I suppose as you couldn’t -sleep you got to thinking, and cried for your mother like a baby, and to -go home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Hofland!” cried Hetty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, I know very well how girls do who have got mothers to cry after. I -used to envy them, not having one. Don’t cry now, but take your -breakfast and cheer up a little. Have a little of this nice toast. When -you cannot have what you want, you should try to get all the good you -can out of what you have,” the governess said. This philosophy of her -profession was dreary, and not suited to Hetty’s tremulous and -unaccustomed ease.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you sleep?” said Rhoda. “Oh, isn’t it awfully quiet in the night -when one can’t sleep?” The child, who had thawed very much out of her -first gravity, threw her arms round Hetty and kissed her; but while she -gave her this embrace asked, with a nervous whisper in her ear, “Did you -hear anything?—did you see anything?” with an anxious look.</p> - -<p>“I heard the stable clock, and the hours striking from the village,” -said Hetty. “Oh! don’t say anything more. It was only that I couldn’t -sleep.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mills looked keenly at her from the other side of the table. She -seemed to examine the girl’s pale face with questioning eyes. She came -in every morning while they were at breakfast, for orders, she said, but -there were never any orders to give her. She suggested what there was to -be for dinner, if the ladies pleased; and the ladies generally did -please, though Miss Hofland, to show her independence, would make an -alteration now and then.</p> - -<p>“It’s cheerful to hear the clocks when one can’t sleep,” said Mrs. -Mills, as if it were possible that she could have heard Rhoda’s -question. “And in this quiet place there is nothing else to hear, unless -one was to believe the stories of the ghosts about the place, and -there’s not much sense in them.”</p> - -<p>“I beg you won’t speak of anything of the kind before Miss Rhoda!” cried -the governess, sharply. “And you, Hetty, you’re trembling, you silly -child!”</p> - -<p>“N—no, Miss Hofland,” Hetty said; but her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> head was racked with pain, -and she scarcely knew what she said. Was it a ghost she had seen, a -disembodied soul? She had not been so entirely without sleep as she -thought, but had dozed and woke again, always in a fever of alarm and -misery, recalling to herself the long muffled figure, the slow, soft, -noiseless movements, the winding out and in of the flower beds where the -yellow and brown heads of the chrysanthemums drooped in the frost. It -seemed to stand before her now as Mrs. Mills stood—though very unlike -Mrs. Mills—a long thin figure, wrapped from head to foot in some -clinging garment.</p> - -<p>“If I speak it is in a joke,” said Mrs. Mills; “you don’t think I -believe in anything of the sort?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t admire that kind of joking,” Miss Hofland said. “Rhoda, come, -if you have finished your breakfast it is quite time to begin lessons. I -think we are a little late to-day.”</p> - -<p>Hetty followed, heavy-eyed and heavy-hearted, her mind oppressed with -the secret, which was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> burden almost beyond her power of supporting. -Should she tell Miss Hofland? she kept asking herself. Should she ask -Mrs. Mills? And oh! what was it? it was no thief watching the house, of -that Hetty was sure. The fantastic movements of the figure among those -flower-beds came up before her eyes a hundred times, and made her almost -cry out with terror. She remembered the very poise of the figure, light, -with a little swing in the step. Could that be a ghost that moved in -such a human way, not gliding, not mystical, as ghosts are described as -being? Her head turned round as again and again the moonlight scene rose -before her. It seemed impossible to get it out of her eyes. She closed -them, to rest her hot strained eyeballs, and lo, there it was before her -in those wonderful contrasts of black and white, so clear, so clear! the -broad stretch of wistful silvery mist and distance behind, the black -solid line of the moving object, the tall flowers drooping their heads, -the trees gathering like spectators on every side. The hum of the voices -near her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> was to Hetty’s ears like a monotonous murmur without meaning. -When it came to her turn to read or answer a question, she raised a -white face without intelligence to the governess. “My dear, you have not -been attending,” Miss Hofland cried, astonished; but this by degrees -changed into, “My dear, you must be ill. Is your head bad? have you -caught cold? What is the matter?” Miss Hofland was very philosophical on -her own account, but to the young people under her charge she was kind, -and it was understood in her code of laws that a headache was always to -be respected, being in some sort a girl’s only refuge in heartache and -all other ills.</p> - -<p>“I feel dreadfully stupid,” said Hetty, not knowing how to excuse -herself.</p> - -<p>“It is your head that is bad. You will be better if you will go and lie -down,” said Miss Hofland; but this was a remedy that made Hetty shiver. -Lie down with her face towards the window from which she had seen that -sight, or, worse still, turning her back to it, so that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> figure -might be performing any kind of wild gyration behind her! This made the -throbbing in her head and the fluttering at her heart worse than ever.</p> - -<p>“Oh no!” she cried, “I don’t want to lie down; let me stay here—oh! let -me stay with you. It is so much nicer to be with you.”</p> - -<p>“Then lie down on the sofa,” said the governess, “and try to go to -sleep. Poor little thing! how you are trembling, your nerves are all -wrong. That’s what it is to have a <i>nuit blanche</i> when one is young.”</p> - -<p>“Did you hear anything, Hetty? did you see anything?” cried little Rhoda -in her ear, while Miss Hofland covered her up. Hetty, in the agony of -her unwonted secret, did not know how to make any reply. She had never -known what it was to have a secret before. To know something which she -kept to herself seemed wrong to Hetty. If there ever was any little -thing unknown to mamma, such as that project for the private paying of -the bills, it was breathed to Janey. Little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> secrets about Christmas -presents and suchlike—secrets so little, so innocent—were always -shared with somebody. To have this dark knowledge in her heart, and -nobody to tell it to, made Hetty’s heart sick. And Rhoda’s big eyes -appealing to her made everything more difficult. She had heard nothing, -not a sound, which made what she had seen still more weird and -unearthly. And what did the child mean, whispering as if she had a -secret too?</p> - -<p>Hetty, however, slumbered a little in the warm room, with the protecting -sense of society round her, and the hum of the voices in her ears. -Nothing could happen there to her that would not be known. If that thing -should really appear again, at least Miss Hofland would be there to see -it too. This soothed and brought the ease of rest to the feverish brain.</p> - -<p>But when night came again, and Hetty had to go to bed by herself in that -room, with the window as usual open to the sky, and the formal -flower-beds with the chrysanthemums all spread out in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> the moonlight, -and the consciousness that Miss Hofland had turned the key in her door, -and shut herself off from all possibility of appeal, Hetty’s sensations -of alarm were indescribable. She rushed to the window and drew the -curtains close that she might not see out; then, feeling still more -intolerable the thought that outside, in the whiteness of the moon, that -ghastly thing might be pacing, drew them back again in a panic, and -gazed out in a trance of speechless terror. But the white light fell -unbroken over the garden, and the long vista of the park opened before -her, a wistful vacancy stretching to the sky, without a living thing to -disturb the scene. Hetty stood clinging to the curtains, half hidden in -their folds, as if she were herself afraid to be seen, for a long time, -she did not know how long. But there was no movement or shadow upon the -undisturbed stillness, and ghostly, motionless, half-frozen calm -without. She stood there till she was chilled to the heart with cold; -her fire had gone out; her candles were nearly burnt to the socket, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> -nature began to assert her rights. The stable clock shrilling all the -hours close at hand, and the village clock booming in a minute after -like a bass accompaniment, were half consoling, half alarming. Twelve! -how long it took to strike! and was not this the hour “when churchyards -yawn and graves give up——” Hetty hung upon the curtains, half -unconscious, for a minute or two; if she had not grasped them so she -would have fallen, and probably fainted. But the support of the heavy, -thick folds, which sustained her slight little figure, kept her from -that climax. And after a time she crept to bed and slept soundly, and -woke wondering at herself; trying to laugh at herself; chiding herself -for all this excitement. Her night’s rest had restored her nerves. She -appeared at breakfast, if still a little tremulous, yet herself again, -and smiled as she met Miss Hofland’s sympathetic inquiries, and Mrs. -Mills’ keen look. Why did Mrs. Mills look at her with that gaze of -suspicion? and little Rhoda, with her big eyes, seizing the first -opportunity to whisper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> “Did you hear anything?” The look and the -question raised again a little flutter in her spirits, but she felt -brave in the strength of her night’s sleep, and of the passage of time, -which has always a soothing effect: and began to forget.</p> - -<p>Another night passed, and she saw nothing, and then another day. The -girl felt more safe; life began to wear its usual aspect. It might be -one of the servants after all; some one, perhaps, who did not venture to -go into the garden during the day, and who had heard of the -chrysanthemums; or it might be the gardener, stealing out to cover some -of his more delicate plants. None of those common-sense explanations had -occurred to Hetty at first. They came upon her now in a crowd. Of course -she said to herself, How foolish not to have thought of it before! The -frosts were beginning to be harder every night; what more natural than -that the gardener should take every precaution against the severe -weather? In the reaction from her panic, Hetty became more cheerful, -more gay than ever. If suddenly her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> vision came before her eyes and -chilled her, she flung it away, saying to herself: how silly! Why was it -that she had not seen how easily the thing was to be accounted for -before?</p> - -<p>This continued for some time. She was not so courageous when she went -into her room at night. There she invariably passed half an hour or so -enveloped in the curtains, gazing out; but with less and less alarm, -sometimes even with a little bravado, opening her window, giving herself -the keen and thrilling sensations of the wintry night. And a long time -passed before she had any occasion for a renewal of her alarm. It was -close upon Christmas when the second incident occurred. Suddenly, in the -grey of a rainy night, as she took her accustomed stand, something -seemed to move outside, and brought her heart with a leap into her -throat. Something moved; that was all. She could distinguish nothing; -the grey of the night, the soft haze of the falling rain, filled up the -landscape. The opening of the park was but a pale blotch upon the -surrounding darkness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> After the first moment of pain, Hetty chid -herself again. Yes, she said to herself, something moved. Of that there -was no doubt; the rain falling down straight through the windless air -moved, of course, keeping a sensation of flow and action in the -immovable atmosphere. But this did not still the beating of her heart. -She pressed close to the window, holding it with her hand, peering out -into the grey. To see anything was impossible through the veil of that -falling rain. It went on, not violently—softly, a gentle cold stream of -imperceptible drops, soaking everything, obliterating sound and sight. -Who could see, had they the sharpest eyes in the world, through that -mist of continuous dropping? who could hear anything, had they ears as -keen as those of a savage? And yet Hetty, with her heart beating so loud -that it filled all the world with commotion, both heard and saw and knew -that something—she could not tell what—something living, that had a -will and action of its own, was somewhere near her outside, disguised -and enveloped in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> soft pouring of the rain. She said to herself, the -gardener, one of the servants, as she had done before; but her heart was -sick with terror. She could not satisfy herself with that argument; half -the night through she watched; and yet she could not say that she had -seen anything. No, nothing at all, nothing at all! but she felt in every -fibre, in every nerve, that someone had been there.</p> - -<p>This time she resolved on telling Miss Hofland. It was impossible to -live under the spell of this terror. She must, at least—she must—have -somebody to share it; and insensibly she began to hope that perhaps Miss -Hofland, being older, and having seen so much in her life, might be able -to suggest some explanation, and clear the mystery up. Hetty slept -little that night. Her resolution gave her a little steadiness, but it -did not restore her calm; and in the dawn of the winter morning she was -up before any one, unable to rest. When there was something like -daylight in the grey skies, a ghost of morning just making the garden -and its formal flower-beds visible, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> stole again to her window; and -finally, encouraged by the hour, and the consciousness that, though -there was still so little light, it was day and not night that was -approaching, opened it softly and stole out. The rain had ceased, but -everything was sodden and wet, her foot sinking into the spongy grass, -which came close up to the window ledge. There was nothing there that -could conceal any lurking figure. If there had been anything, any -clandestine visitor, whoever it was must have crouched by the wall, -close, close to where she stood within. Hetty thought she saw some of -the moss upon the wall scraped away as by some one rubbing against it; -and her heart sprang up once more with the flutter of terror to think of -this possibility. Only the wall between her—so young, so frightened, -and helpless—and that presence, whether spirit or man, whatever it was. -It was all she could do to stand upon her trembling limbs and keep -upright, though it was now morning and no longer dark. And when suddenly -something appeared round the corner of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_241.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_241.jpg" width="568" height="366" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>“I FEAR I HAVE DISTURBED YOU” (<i>p. 243</i>).</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">the house, a dark figure making its way towards her, she could not -restrain a scream as she flew back to the shelter of her window. Quick -as her movements were, she was not quick enough, however, to elude this -presence; and Hetty’s fear gave place to a stupefied astonishment when -she recognised the doctor, Mr. Darrell, who touched her shoulder, and -called her by her name.</p> - -<p>“Let me speak to you a moment,” he said, breathlessly. “I fear I have -disturbed you—perhaps more than once.”</p> - -<p>“You!” was all that Hetty could say, panting with fright, relief, and -profound surprise above all. He was in his usual dress, looking somehow -as if he had not taken it off all night, and looked harassed and pale.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said. “I was afraid you had seen me, and might be frightened. -I have a patient with whom I have to be at all hours, both night and -day; who is not quite sane but quite harmless. Forgive me; and might I -ask you not to speak of it to frighten the house?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_244.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_244.jpg" width="301" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>SHUTTING UP.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>O say nothing of it, to frighten the house! Hetty had never encountered -in her own youthful person such a difficulty before. To keep the secret -of something which had happened, which now it was very clear to her was -not accidental—something perhaps that might be important, to keep the -secret from those whom it might concern! In a moment her little fiction -about the gardener disappeared, and she felt that she had never truly -believed it. Something of far greater meaning lay beneath. She -confronted it vaguely with frightened eyes; the conditions of her -coming, and of the life here, and of Miss Hofland’s wonder and -questioning, all flashing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> upon her in a moment. Everything went to -prove that there was a mystery involved, something connected with the -family that probably ought not to be concealed. She looked at Mr. -Darrell with eyes which woke from a sort of stupefaction of fear and -wonder into intelligence and acute anxiety. She did not speak, having -scarcely regained sufficient possession of herself to trust her voice, -but examined him with those awakened eyes.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing wrong,” he said, with a slight tremulousness. “I would -not deceive you. Whatever may be the rights of the matter, nothing could -be gained by disturbing the house.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what is it?” cried Hetty, in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>He shook his head with a smile. “Nothing,” he said, “that can affect -you, nothing indeed. You have seen or heard me going to my patient?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Darrell,” said Hetty, with the indignation of sincerity, “it -was not you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He shrank a little from her look. “I think you are mistaken,” he said; -“how can you tell in the night who it is? I have to be about at all -hours. I go through the park, or even across the garden, as the shortest -way.”</p> - -<p>Hetty eyed him once more with the superiority of fact over fiction. She -looked at him as if she saw through him, he thought, and, what was -worse, undervalued him, and set him down as a deceiver. In reality Hetty -was far too much perplexed and disturbed in her mind to come to any such -decided conclusion. She was looking at him instinctively to try to make -him out. And in this look a great many things were communicated by the -one to the other which did not at all involve the immediate question. -Hetty saw a face which was full of anxiety, and perhaps of desire to -veil a certain secret, but which at the same time was open and true, the -countenance of a man in whom guile was not. The true recognise the true, -however different may be their mental altitude or position. She thought -he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> deceiving her, and yet by instinct she believed in him. And he -saw, in the young face lifted to him with such troubled questioning, the -look of a judge before whose decision he trembled. If she should judge -him from the surface, as it was so natural she should—if she took the -fiction on his lips for the indication of his character, the young -doctor in a moment felt that the work in which he was engaged, and which -already his conscience disapproved, would cost him dear.</p> - -<p>“Miss Asquith,” he said, hurriedly, “I must not stop to explain. Will -you remember, whatever may happen, that I am always about? even when you -don’t see anything of me, I’m near. Don’t let yourself be frightened; -whatever happens, I am always near.”</p> - -<p>“It would be better to tell me what it is. Then I could not be -frightened,” said Hetty, with as much calm as she could muster. But -before he could reply, he no less than she started at the sound of a -step—one step and no more, at which she clutched his arm with terror -unspeakable, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> he looked quickly round with a look of alarm in which -there was no counterfeit. There was but one step, which was a thing to -curdle the blood, as it seemed to Hetty, more than any succession of -footsteps—one single stealthy step and no more.</p> - -<p>“Who is there? Speak,” cried the young doctor, with a voice which was -not loud, but seemed to penetrate the intense morning stillness like a -knife. And then, while Hetty stood speechless, there suddenly appeared -round the corner of the house the paltry figure of Mrs. Mills the -housekeeper, in extremely simple morning apparel, with a scared look in -her face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Darrell, is it you?” she cried in her turn, in a voice full of -relief.</p> - -<p>It would have been embarrassing for an older and more experienced young -woman than Hetty to find herself discovered by the housekeeper in close -colloquy with young Mr. Darrell, in the early morning before the house -was astir. But Hetty was too young for any such feeling. She was -frightened, but relieved beyond measure. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> is not pleasant to think -that even the housekeeper stands and looks in at your window in the grey -of the morning before any one is awake. But still this seemed to Hetty, -somehow, more possible than if it had been the doctor making mysterious, -impossible journeys round the house. Her hand dropped from that clutch -upon his arm. She felt restored at once to the practicable world.</p> - -<p>“I am trying to persuade Miss Asquith,” he said, “that she heard nothing -worse than myself passing through the garden, and that she must not be -surprised if she hears me again.”</p> - -<p>The woman, who looked pale, as if she had been up all night, melted into -an uneasy smile. “No, no, she mustn’t be afraid. There are a many noises -about this house,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Nothing more than the doctor going his rounds, late or early,” said -Darrell; “you will believe Mrs. Mills? And now go back to your room, and -I hope you won’t let me disturb your rest again. Remember,” he said, -with emphasis, “I’m always about. I’m always near.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You’ve got your window all open, miss,” said the housekeeper. “Bless -me! it should always be well fastened and the shutters shut. I must give -the housemaid a piece of my mind.”</p> - -<p>Hetty followed her in, unresisting, as she pushed into the privacy of -the room, which on ordinary occasions the girl was jealous of exposing -to vulgar eyes, with its little array of photographs and family -treasures. Mrs. Mills took no notice of these, but she quickly shut and -fastened the window. “It’s very early for you to be up. Don’t you know -it’s very awkward for the servants, Miss Asquith, when a young lady -takes to getting up at these unearthly hours?”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean to trouble anybody. I heard a step, and I opened the -window to see what it was.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” said the housekeeper; “I shouldn’t have done that. What a -daring thing for a young lady to do! Supposing it had been -housebreakers, and your window so nice and handy for them to step into -the house?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do you think it was housebreakers?” Hetty cried.</p> - -<p>“Bless you, my child, no, not in daylight. They’re not as bold as that. -But another time, Miss Asquith, take my advice, and don’t open your -window in that confiding way. You’re always a deal safer with everything -shut. And there are always sounds about an old house like this. For my -part, I never pay any attention. Have everything well shut and fastened, -and then you can’t take any harm, whoever may be about.”</p> - -<p>“I thought perhaps,” said Hetty, timidly, “there might be some -danger—that it might be right to call some one—that I ought to ring -the bell, or something.”</p> - -<p>“Bless me!” said the housekeeper again. “You would be as good as an -extra watchman for the family. But look here, my dear young lady, don’t -you take any trouble. What is the house to you? You’re only a stranger -in it. Shut up your window and lock your door, and nothing can harm you. -I’ll have it done myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> to-night. As for the house, there are plenty -to see to that, and no danger of housebreakers here.”</p> - -<p>Hetty was very much agitated by these interviews. She found no -satisfaction in them. The doctor’s repeated assurance that he was always -near was little more consolatory than the housekeeper’s injunctions to -shut herself up, and take no concern for the house. Hetty could not -understand anything of the kind. To be shut up in shivering safety, a -poor little atom of terrified consciousness in the midst of unknown -dangers, indifferent to and shut off from everybody around, seemed to -her so unnatural, so horrible. She remembered now the chill she had felt -when she heard Miss Hofland lock her door. Was it possible to live in a -house like this—each shut in, safe under lock and key, and no one -taking any interest in the panic or trouble which might be in the next -room?</p> - -<p>This thought was more strange to Hetty than even the thought of danger. -Danger! She had known what it was to feel a thrill of terror when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> she -woke in the night and heard some of those sounds which are always -alarming to a watcher: the vague noises of the darkness, sounds -exaggerated by the surrounding silence into something inexplainable, -mysterious creaks and cracklings. But then there was the sense of -habitation in the house, the certainty of father and mother always ready -to be appealed to, and at whose appearance all dangers were disarmed. At -Horton the sensation was very different. The house felt empty, cold, -with a mysterious chill in it, and a few trembling individuals dotted -along the side of the house, each shut up in her separate room. This was -more dreadful to Hetty than words could say. She was very silent all -day, shivering from time to time, extremely pale, as unlike the -bright-faced girl she had been a little while before as it is possible -to conceive. And they were all very kind. Miss Hofland flew to her -favourite idea of a headache and to her favourite expedient of lying on -the sofa, which was her panacea for all troubles. “I’ll get you a book, -my dear,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> said. “I have a very nice book, which I brought with me. -I am sure you have never read it; and now you can lie quite comfortably, -and not be disturbed by anything. Going to bed may be better when you -have a headache; some people think so: but it <i>is</i> giving in so when you -go to bed, and then it’s lonely, and unless you can sleep, I don’t see -the advantage. You are just as well on the sofa, and more cheerful. I am -afraid Horton is not going to agree with you: and that would be such a -bore when we have just got so nicely settled down.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wonder it does not agree with her,” said the housekeeper, “a -young lady that sleeps with her window open in this weather.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, goodness!” cried Miss Hofland. “A window opening on the park in any -weather! You must not do it, my dear. Why, <i>anything</i> might run in—a -rabbit or a squirrel out of the woods, or one of the sheep that’s -grazing about, or even a cow. Fancy being woke in the middle of the -night by a cow! I can’t conceive what I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> should do—shriek till I -brought the house down. Fancy a cow’s breath suddenly puffed out upon -you, and a great ‘Mo—oo’ in the middle of the night!”</p> - -<p>“A cow’s an innocent thing,” said Mrs. Mills. The housekeeper kept -appearing all day, coming in with every meal, keeping an eye upon Hetty. -The girl felt this confusedly, though she could not think why it was.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes! it is an innocent thing and a nice thing in its proper place. -But in your bedroom at the dead of night! My dear, you must consider, if -not for your own sake, yet for the sake of other people. I make it a -rule to shut up my windows, even in summer. When you get used to living -in strange houses that are nothing to you, where you are only for a -time, you have to be particular. Why, anybody might come in—a tramp -that had got into the park.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t frighten the young ladies, Miss Hofland, please. There’s no such -thing possible. A tramp could no more get in here than at Windsor -Castle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> It would be as much as their places were worth to the -lodge-keepers. And it’s a thing that never happened. No, it’s an old -house, and if any one says there are noises about, that can’t be quite -accounted for, well, I’ll not go against them: but as for tramps!” Mrs. -Mills cried, with a laugh. The derision in her tone seemed to Hetty to -be addressed to herself. What a little fool you are! but at least keep -it to yourself, that look seemed to say.</p> - -<p>And at night, when they all went to bed, both Miss Hofland and the -housekeeper went with Hetty to her room. The latter had given -instructions to the housemaid, and everything was fastened in Hetty’s -room, the shutters closed, the curtains drawn, a dreadful sense of being -shut up and cut off from everything breathing in the motionless air. -Hetty gasped, with a feeling that she could not get breath. But the room -was large and lofty, and not without air, so that the sensation was -imaginative rather than real. There was a bright fire blazing, which -made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> everything look cheerful. “This is what I call comfortable,” Miss -Hofland said. “Don’t you think so too, my dear? Those nice soft curtains -keep out every bit of draught. I must say they understand comfort in -this house. Mine are so thick, if a gale is blowing, I never feel it in -the least—and these are nearly as good. Surely you like that better -than an open window at this time of the year?”</p> - -<p>“Some people have a fad about open windows, and say you should have them -all the year through. Some people have a fad about curtains. I don’t -blame Miss Asquith, for she’s very young: but I think when a young lady -is living with other people she should go by the ways of the house.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that at all,” said Miss Hofland. “If you’ve any sort of -rights, you’ve a right to arrange your own room as you choose, and I -have never done otherwise. A lady that has to live in other people’s -houses has many things to put up with, but I never should give in to -that. All the same, my dear, when you sleep on the ground-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span>floor you -can’t be too particular. Now lock the door after me, and you will be as -snug and as safe as if you were in a box. Good-night, dear, and sleep -well, and don’t mind if you should hear the house tumbling down. It’s no -concern of ours.”</p> - -<p>With this Miss Hofland crossed the little passage to her own door, and -waving her hand, shut and locked it, as Hetty could very well hear. The -housekeeper retired by the other, repeating Miss Hofland’s advice. “Just -turn the key when I’m gone, and then you’ll be sure nothing can happen -to frighten you. And there’s really nothing to frighten any one, only -noises such as you hear in every old house.”</p> - -<p>Hetty, with a beating heart, did as she was told; and then the -oppression of this shut-in solitude and silence came round her like a -shroud. The curtains seemed to close round with an ominous envelopment. -The straight lines of the walls, with no windows to break them, -frightened her as if they were the sides of a box, as Miss Hofland had -said. The girl’s nerves were so strained that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> she burst into one of -those youthful tempests of tears which relieve the bosom. She had -nothing to cry for, nothing. Comfort, luxurious and elaborate, -surrounded her, and no harm was near that she knew of. The fire burned -cheerfully; everything was shut out that could frighten or trouble her. -For what did Hetty cry, or what had she to fear?</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_259.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_259.jpg" height="159" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_260.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_260.jpg" width="359" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>“LET ME GO HOME.”</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN Hetty woke in the middle of the night, and found herself in -darkness, without a glimmer of light, curtains and shutters closing her -in, doors locked between her and all the rest of the world, a gloom -which could be felt weighing down her eyelids, the sensation of terror -which overwhelmed her was no doubt entirely unreasonable. Miss Hofland -next door felt these precautions essential to her rest. But little Hetty -lay not daring to breathe, bound in a speechless and horrible panic -which no words could express. Nothing that she could have seen or heard -would have equalled the horror of seeing nothing, of lying there a -hopeless prisoner of the darkness, the silence throbbing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> round her, the -gloom pressing upon her like a tangible weight. How she had woke, -whether by the reverberation of some cry, or by some stirring in the -night, she could not tell. She thought it was both. She thought that -some shriek penetrating the too great and tingling profundity of -silence, and some movement in the intense, insupportable gloom, had -broken the uneasy sleep into which she had fallen against her will while -the firelight lasted, with its friendly blaze and little crackling. -These had saved her from the horror of the shut-up place. But now the -fire had died out, there was no glimpse or glimmer anywhere; all was -dark, dark, horrible, a blackness growing upon her, getting into her -very soul. Something of the effect of a nightmare was in that horrible -gloom. It seemed to hold her so that she could not move, and scarcely -could breathe. There seemed no air, but only darkness, darkness within -and around. Her eyes were useless to her, as if she had none; and her -ears, which seemed strained and worn with the effort,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> were the only -sentinels she had to warn her of any approaching evil, and tingled and -throbbed, either they or that black vacancy which they watched. All this -was nothing, as the reader knows, it was only a child’s fantastic -rendering of the most common-place fact, but to Hetty it was a fever, a -nightmare, everything that was most appalling. She started up at last, -defying the still greater horror of meeting or running against some -awful presence hidden in the gloom, and groped about the dreadful place -till she found the curtains, restraining all the time with the most -frantic effort a scream which was in her throat, which only the -strongest resolution kept from bursting forth. When at last she had -succeeded in opening everything, and discerned with transport a pale -gleam of sky, with black tree-tops tossing about it, Hetty dropped upon -the floor beside the window, almost fainting with exhaustion and relief. -At last here was a little light, though it was only the glimmer of -midnight. It was the sky; there was one faint star in it, shining by the -edge of a cloud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> She was not shut up in a box of blackness and darkness -and separated from all the world.</p> - -<p>Feverish thoughts flew through Hetty’s brain in this half-swoon. She -said to herself, Would death be like that?—all black, nothing to be -heard or seen, a horrible blank, in which nothing but throbbing terror -and dread consciousness were. She tried to tell herself that death was -nothing at all, only a passage from earth to heaven, but had not enough -command of her faculties to follow that or any other argument, but only -to feel, with a wild relief, that she was not dead, for here was the sky -still palely glimmering, light in it, not blackness, as the shut-up room -had been. She supposed afterwards that she had fallen asleep there, half -wrapped in the curtain near that blessed window which had brought her -back to life; for when she came to herself much later, in the first -profound chills of dawn, she found herself half lying, half sitting, in -the elastic fold of the heavy curtain, aching with cold and exposure, -and for the moment deeply wondering how she came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> there, at the foot of -the tall window which was now full of the grey lightness of the coming -day.</p> - -<p>Hetty was paler than ever, nervous, and trembling, next day. She had -caught a chill, everybody said; and again Miss Hofland prescribed the -sofa, the novel, hot cups of tea, and other gratifications; the lessons -were done by her side to save her trouble, and little Rhoda showed her a -great deal of silent sympathy, stealing to her side in the intervals of -those simple studies, putting an arm round her neck as she stood by the -sofa, even bestowing a silent kiss by way of consolation. The girl -recovered her courage during the day, especially as the sun shone, and -everything looked brighter. But as evening drew near, Hetty paled and -shivered once more. “A cold is always worse in the evening,” said Miss -Hofland, and recommended bed earlier than usual, and a hot drink. Bed -was the thing of all others that Hetty feared. She lay on the sofa by -the comfortable fire in a state of confused and self-reproachful misery, -such as only the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> young are capable of feeling. Words seemed on her -very lips which she with difficulty kept from becoming audible. “Oh, let -me go home to mamma! oh, let me go home! let me go home!” She thought if -she once began saying it, she would have to go on and on and never could -stop herself. “Oh, let me go home!” She said it over and over and over -within herself, but was checked continually by the thought that if she -said it aloud, if she could have her wish, there would be an end of all -that had been dreamed of, of the bills that might be paid, and the -sealskin for mamma. Hetty bought the sealskin dear. It was that above -all that kept her dumb, that kept down that cry, “Oh, let me go to -mamma!” But then mamma would go cold in her thin cloak all next winter, -because Hetty could not command herself. It came to a compromise at last -in a fit of nervous sobbing, which she could not restrain when, after -Rhoda had been sent away, Miss Hofland again proposed going to bed.</p> - -<p>“My dear! what is the matter? Do you feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> ill? Have you a sore throat? -I do hope you are not going to be hysterical. My dear child, do get the -better of that crying. Tell me frankly what’s the matter. If it’s -anything I can help you in, I will do it; but, for goodness’ sake, don’t -sob like that. What is it you want, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Hofland, I don’t know. I suppose it’s only mamma. I feel as if -I couldn’t do without mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you poor child! Well, I have heard a great many girls say that, my -dear. It’s common when you’re beginning your life. I never had any -mother, and I used to envy them with their crying. I’d have given a -great deal to have had anything to cry for. But every one has to be -reasonable in the end, and you have a great deal of sense, my dear. You -wouldn’t have been sent away unless they had thought it was best for -you. Now isn’t that true? You must just make up your mind to it, and put -up with it, till the time comes; and then all will be right, and you’ll -get back.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know; I can’t help saying it, Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> Hofland, but I don’t really -want it. I want to—stay out my time, and—and get my—money,” Hetty -said, keeping down her sobs.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is the right way to look at it,” said the governess. She -understood well enough, having seen it so often, the little sudden -access of home-sickness, the heroic childish resolution to bear up to -the end and get the money, which so often means far more than money to -the young creature who earns it. Miss Hofland patted Hetty’s shoulder, -and soothed her with genuine feeling; and then she fell into the tone of -one far older than Hetty, and which she truly called governessy. -“Besides, my dear,” she said, “you must recollect that if you are to be -from home at all, you couldn’t be in a more comfortable house. It’s a -little queer, and I can’t help thinking that some day or other something -will be found out to account for it: but they treat us very well; that -can’t be denied. In some places they don’t allow you a fire in your -room, and the schoolroom dinners are like nursery meals, only not so -plenti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span>ful. It is a great addition to all the other things you have to -put up with when that’s the case. But here everything is very -comfortable. Your mother would be quite pleased if she saw how -everything is arranged for us here.”</p> - -<p>Hetty’s sobs died away under the influence of this speech—whether it -was the good sense in it, or that the mode of consolation adopted was so -entirely unfitted to the trouble, a thing which sometimes has quite a -good effect.</p> - -<p>“And then, you know,” said Miss Hofland, “there’s the satisfaction of -knowing that whatever there may be that is strange and out of the way, -it doesn’t concern us. They say that other people’s misfortunes make you -enjoy your own comforts the more. I wouldn’t go quite so far as that: -but it is a great gratification to reflect, when you are in a house -where there is evidently a skeleton somewhere or other, that it is no -business of yours. There’s no telling the comfort there is in that.’</p> - -<p>“But, Miss Hofland,” said Hetty, “do you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> think that just to lock your -door, and never to mind whatever may happen to the house, as Mrs. Mills -says——”</p> - -<p>“Is that what she says?” said the governess, quickly. “Oh, you may be -sure that’s not her way; she would be at the bottom of it. I’m -confident, whatever it was, they couldn’t conceal anything from her! But -she’s got a good deal in her, that woman, though I don’t like her, my -dear. I shouldn’t say but it would be the wisest thing, on the whole. -For what could you do? You can’t clear up their mysteries or put things -straight, so why should you give yourself any trouble? If you thought -there were signs of fire, indeed, why then of course you should give the -alarm at once; for we all should suffer from that, we poor ladies who -have nothing to do with it, and the servants and all. Yes, I should -always give the alarm, whatever it cost you, in case of a fire; but for -other things I am not sure that she did not give you the very best -advice. A man, if he heard a noise, would have to get up and see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> what -it was; but a lady may always lock her door. I do it invariably wherever -I am, my dear. In the first place, it’s safer, for you never know who -might come blundering into your room, as I told you this morning; and -then it frees you from a great deal of responsibility. As a rule, at the -outset of your career, I should say that Mrs. Mills gave you very good -advice.”</p> - -<p>Hetty’s attention failed while Miss Hofland ran on. She lost reckoning -of the motives presented to her, the rule of conduct which her companion -would have been the first to call governessy. Another subject was -foremost in Hetty’s thought—her own room, into which she was about to -be taken as into a prison, where all would be black again, as before, -and the doors locked, everybody’s door locked, so that if any stronger -horror should seize her, there was nowhere she could fly to, no one to -whom she could escape and be safe. She was glad the governess should -talk, in order to put off that evil hour as long as possible. Miss -Hofland sat over the fire, quietly flowing forth in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> that philosophy of -the dependent, how to keep safest in a sort of camp by yourself in the -midst of an ungenial, if not unfriendly, world, how to avoid -responsibility and secure calm, however those around you might be -agitated. This was the code of things expedient which had been fixed in -her mind by years of experience. The girl listened very vaguely at -first, and then went off altogether into her own individual alarms. Her -pretty, comfortable room, with its pleasant fire, that luxury which was -not always allowed, had once more become a dark prison-house to Hetty. -How was she to go through such another night?</p> - -<p>There was a glimmer of comfort in the fact that Miss Hofland accompanied -her there, to see that her hot footbath was ready, and her hot drink. -“You must just jump into bed and cover yourself up warm, and never budge -till morning; and you’ll see your cold will be ever so much better,” she -said, tapping Hetty upon the cheek affectionately. “Now, my clear, don’t -be a little goose.” And then Hetty, with anguish which she could -scarcely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> contain, heard her go into her room and turn the key. “It -frees you from a great deal of responsibility,” she had said. And how -was she to know the miserable panic that was in the poor little girl’s -heart, left thus alone with her consciousness of wanderers outside and -mysteries within, and the sense of darkness and imprisonment, and no one -within call, whatever might happen? Hetty’s first wild idea was that it -would be better to sit up all night, and thus cheat the black gloom and -silence that lay in wait for her. But she was very obedient and quite -unused to act for herself; and there seemed to her something guilty, -something dreadful, in thus disregarding all the usages of life. She sat -down by her fire and read for as long a time as she could keep her -attention to her novel, and then, trembling to find it was midnight, she -stole to bed at last. Happily, she was so worn out that she slept -immediately, as if there had been no panics or mysteries in the world, -or as if her mother’s room—that shelter from all harm—had been open to -her next door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_273.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_273.jpg" width="355" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“O</span>H no! my dear young lady, no no; you must not be so easily -discouraged. Our little friend is very fond of you, and everybody likes -you. Come! you must try and put up with us a little longer. You must get -back your pretty colour and throw off this nasty little fever. The will -has a great deal to do with it, hasn’t it, Darrell? Come, Miss Hester! -You must not make your mamma think we have been unkind to you; that -would never do,” the kind old clergyman said.</p> - -<p>“That is what I am always telling her,” said Miss Hofland. “She is too -old, you know, to cry after her mother; and I tell her I used to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> envy -the girls that had something to cry for, for I never had any mother. I -might have cried my eyes out, and it wouldn’t have done me any good.”</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear!” said the old Rector, looking at the governess with a -mixture of wonder and alarm, a momentary tribute to her cleverness in -getting into the world by some unknown way; and then he returned to -Hetty, patting her affectionately upon the shoulder. “She’s not too old -for anything,” he said soothingly. “She’s too young for anything, and -never was away from her dear mother before: I feel sure she never knew -what it was——”</p> - -<p>“My dear! before the Rector and Mr. Darrell!” cried Miss Hofland. “You -ought to have a little proper pride.”</p> - -<p>For Hetty, hearing all these allusions to her mother and the talk that -went on over her, and being very weak and in a paroxysm of excited -feeling, had given way to a tempest of tears.</p> - -<p>“Let her cry,” said the kind old Rector, still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> going on patting her -with an almost mesmeric touch. “It must get vent, you know, and better -here than when she is alone. Just leave her to me a little, and she will -come round. You know, my dear young lady, if it should fall to your lot -in this world to get your own living, as many a nice, good girl has to -do, there are always difficulties to be got over at first. It’s not like -home. Though you put ever so good a face upon it, it’s not like home. -When you get used to it, you take the bitter with the sweet. But I have -often seen at the beginning that there was a little crisis, and it was -touch and go whether the poor little young heart could face the lot or -not.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” cried Hetty convulsively; “it is not that; it’s only that I’m -feeling—ill; it is not that I am—silly: indeed, indeed!” the poor -child cried, struggling to speak steadily.</p> - -<p>“It is only this, that she is feverish, and her nerves have received a -shock,” said the young doctor. “Now that the days are brightening, and -she can get out in the open air<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>The little old clergyman nodded his head and went on, “I understand all -that. But all the same there’s this little crisis which has to be got -over. I daresay, my dear, that Miss Hofland had it too, though she tells -us that she never had what most people have. I was once a tutor in my -young days, and I felt it, though I was a man. There are particular -qualities that are wanted for this dependent sort of life. We are all -more or less dependents here,” he said, looking round benevolently upon -the group about him. The speech was very well meant, but it was not very -well received: the young doctor made a hasty step apart, as if to -separate himself from the others, while Miss Hofland cried, “Oh, Mr. -Rector!” with suppressed indignation, “I do not consider myself a -dependent. I have accepted a position for a year, and so long as I do -the duties I’ve undertaken, I hope I’m as independent as any one. I -don’t mix myself up with the family at all,” Miss Hofland said.</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear young lady,” said the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> clergyman, “I am, if nobody -else is: for though I am called the Rector by most people, and though I -have been here for a great number of years, I am only here, after all, -as <i>locum tenens</i>, which is a name you will no doubt have heard, as a -clergyman’s daughter; that means, you know, that I am here enjoying all -my little comforts at the will and pleasure of somebody else. He might -send me away to-morrow, or at least in three months’ time: or he might -die. He has been expected to die a great many times. I think sometimes -he never will. He’s an old, old fellow, much older that I am, and I, -though I am an old man, am quite dependent upon him, so, you see, I know -what I am talking about.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Rector, if that is what you mean!” murmured Miss Hofland, -abashed.</p> - -<p>“Papa was the same once,” said Hetty, roused out of her self-occupation. -“We had a delightful house and a great, beautiful garden. But then the -old gentleman died, and we had to give it up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“When my old gentleman dies, I shall have to give it up too; but I hope -he will outlive me. When an old man like that gets up among the -eighties, he may just as well live for ever: and I’m sure I hope he -will. So, you see, I have a long experience of being dependent; and I -should like to give you the help of my experience, you who are at the -other end. But I hope you will not have to live this kind of life.”</p> - -<p>“You needn’t feel any dependence unless you please,” said Miss Hofland. -“I would not set her against it, Mr. Rector, if she should have to -follow it, for a girl in most cases cannot choose for herself.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean to set her against it,” said the old clergyman; but they -were both interrupted by Hetty, to whom this opening of a new interest -was invaluable.</p> - -<p>“If this old gentleman is so old,” she said, “I wonder what his name is? -I wonder if perhaps he is the old Rector, Uncle Hugh, that mamma used to -tell us about?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The little group round Hetty was thunder-struck by this remark. Miss -Hofland hastily took up the eau-de-cologne, with a glance of alarm; and -the doctor lifted his head sharply and fixed his eyes upon her, as if -with a sudden gleam of hope.</p> - -<p>“Uncle Hugh!” cried the old clergyman. “My dear Miss Hester—I—this is -very surprising. He is Mr. Hugh Prescott, certainly, if you happen to -mean that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Hetty, with awakened interest, “then it is Uncle Hugh! Mamma -has not heard of any of them for such a long time. She says it is so -wrong not to keep up writing, but there are so many of us, and she has -so much to do. Then Uncle Hugh is still alive! I will write directly and -tell her. She will be so pleased to know.”</p> - -<p>“Then your mother is——? To be sure!” cried the old clergyman. -“Asquith! I ought to have remembered. It is not so common a name but -that I might have remembered. Your father<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> was once the curate here.” He -looked round upon his companions with a strange look, as if admitting -some new possibility from which unknown combinations might arise. “Why, -she’s a relation of the family,” he said.</p> - -<p>The housekeeper had come into the room while this conversation was going -on. She was always coming and going; and it was a great grievance with -Miss Hofland that she had begun constantly to open the door without -knocking, which was an assertion of equality on the housekeeper’s part -which the governess could not bear. She came forward now with a cup of -chicken-broth for Hetty, and in a moment became somehow the central -figure in the group. “Of the old family,” she said firmly, “and that is -what I have always thought. I thought from the beginning that there was -more than met the eye in that young lady being here.”</p> - -<p>The doctor stepped forward quickly, giving the woman a hasty, warning -look. “I wish I had known before,” he said. “It might have made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> things -easier.” And then he stopped, both in words and action, as if suddenly -perceiving either that he had said too much, or that his confusion had -betrayed him into something which ought not to have been said at all. -“To be sure, I don’t see that it makes much difference,” he said between -his teeth.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said the housekeeper, somewhat severely, “that if you will -reflect a moment, you will see that it makes no difference at all.”</p> - -<p>Miss Hofland, who was entirely in the dark, looked from one to another -with bewilderment. “Do you mean that Hetty is a relation of little -Rhoda?” she cried.</p> - -<p>“The Rector said, Miss Hofland, of the <i>old</i> family,” said the -housekeeper pointedly; but neither of the gentlemen spoke. A curious -silence fell over the little party, as if no one, except Mrs. Mills, -whose views were peremptory, understood what was to be made of this new -idea, whether it were of great importance or of no importance at all. It -did not end in any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> additional demonstrations towards Hetty, to whom -indeed, in the little lingering illness, which, after all, was no more -than a feverish cold, aggravated by the tortures of the imagination -which she had been going through, and which Dr. Darrell only partly -guessed at, everybody had been as kind as it was possible to be. The -housekeeper herself, though so severe and secretly distrusted by all the -party, had been very kind to Hetty. If it had been the daughter of the -house, as Miss Hofland remarked, there could not have been more pains -taken with her. “Certainly they do treat us very well; there is nothing -whatever to be found fault with in that respect.” But no doubt Miss -Hofland herself looked upon the girl with a different eye. A relation of -the old family! The governess at least entertained from the beginning -the conviction, formed at once on her entry on her duties, that the old -family was very much superior to the new.</p> - -<p>As for Hetty herself, this little discovery did her more good than the -chicken-broth. It raised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> her failing spirit; it gave the pleasant -impulse of a new event. It was indeed, when she came to think of it, no -event at all, for though it had not seemed necessary to speak of it to -the servants and dependents of the new family, or to the little heiress -who was all she was acquainted with of the new family, Hetty herself had -been aware from the first that the house in which she was living was the -house of her ancestors, and that probably, as she thought, she had far -more to do with it, and certainly with the old pictures, than Rhoda had, -to whom everything would some day belong. There were no old servants in -the establishment who could remember her mother, no sign of any one -recollecting that such an unusual name as that of Asquith had once been -known at Horton. But now that the discovery had come about in this -natural way, it pleased Hetty. She had not written much to her mother -since she had been ill; but now, in the pleasant excitement of her -discovery, it was the first thing she thought of.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> As soon as the -visitors went away, she got up from her sofa of her own accord, -forgetting her dizziness and weakness, and began to write a little. -“Such a discovery has been made,” she wrote. “Uncle Hugh is alive still, -he is living abroad for his health, and the Rector is only <i>locum -tenens</i>, as papa was at Retford. He hopes Uncle Hugh may live for ever, -but that is not very likely, is it? My cold is a great deal better. I -think hearing this has driven it away; not that it makes much -difference, but still it makes one feel one’s self more at home, and as -if the house really did belong to us once.” After she had written this -cheerful letter, Hetty spent the most cheerful evening she had known for -a long time. Her fever seemed to have flown; her hands were moist; a -little soft pink colour came back to the cheeks which had alternated -between red and white. The sense of being better is in itself the best -of medicines. It went on raising her courage, strengthening her nerves, -making her altogether like herself. She went to sleep tran<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span>quilly, -without any alarm or excitement, with the shutters folded back a little, -the curtains drawn back, and one line of the light she loved, one little -span of sky, looking in upon her, so that she could see it where she -lay. It was a moonlight night, very soft, the temperature having risen, -and everything, as Miss Hofland said, “turning for the best.”</p> - -<p>It might be the middle of the night, veering towards the morning, when -that calm was disturbed. The moon had gone down, and it was still long -before dawn: the darkness intense, the softness of the evening lost in -the dead chill and depth of night, and, so far as any one was aware, the -great house of Horton all silent, filled with sleep and quiet—when -suddenly a wild and terrible shriek pealed through the stillness, a cry -that might have waked the dead, a cry of terror past reason, almost past -humanity, shrill and awful; it was followed by two others in swift -succession, cutting the silence like stabs of a weapon. It takes much to -wake a house so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> wrapped in quiet, in the midst of its night’s sleep; -but there was an instantaneous awakening in one quarter of the house, -which helped to rouse the rest; and when Miss Hofland, too much startled -by the keen ring of that shriek, almost at her very door, to think of -her own philosophy of precaution, hurried out into the passage in -consternation, her hair hanging over her shoulders, her naked feet -thrust into slippers, she met with a second shock almost as great as the -first, the housekeeper in her usual trim dress hurrying towards Hetty’s -door with a candle in her hand. This sight transfixed the dishevelled -maids, who, taking courage from their numbers, were rushing from all -sides crying, “What is it? Who is it?” with shrieks almost as noisy, -though so wonderfully different in intensity, from that which had -awakened the house. The governess was aware of the second bewilderment, -though she did not pause to think what it was. A blast of cold air came -in their faces, as they burst into Hetty’s room, from the window, one -side of which stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> open, like a door, into the profoundest midnight -darkness. On the bed lay Hetty, or her ghost—a white face with staring -eyes, with the bedclothes drawn up tightly as if with an effort to pull -them over her face in her two clenched and rigid hands. Her eyes stared -wide open, but there was no meaning in them; the mouth still seemed to -quiver with that shriek, but was capable of no utterance. The horror of -some sight unspeakable seemed to linger in the awful lines about the -staring eyes, and in the wild hollows of the marble cheeks—marble -white, and with the rigidity of marble too. A murmur of horror came from -the women, cowed at the sight, except Mrs. Mills, who held up her -candle, throwing a strange light upon the paralysed face. The candle -trembled in her hand, but she uttered no word. It was thought afterwards -that this was what she had expected to see.</p> - -<p>And presently, running in hot haste, with every mark of agitation, pale, -with the perspiration pouring down his face, as if he had been engaged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> -in some mortal struggle, the young doctor in his ordinary dress came -down the corridor and entered Hetty’s room. He had the tail of his coat -half torn off at one side, the governess remarked, as, remembering her -own undressed condition, she took refuge behind the curtain. The young -man flung himself down on his knees by the bedside, calling out to the -housekeeper to hold her candle low, and loosening or trying to loosen -the rigid hands. “Is she dead, Doctor? Is she dead?” Mrs. Mills said in -a low voice of horror. She trembled in every limb, but she was not -surprised.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_288.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_288.jpg" height="142" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_289.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_289.jpg" width="370" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>A MIDNIGHT VISITOR.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HIS was what had happened to Hetty.</p> - -<p>In the middle of the night she had woke up suddenly as on that occasion -when she had come to life out of her dreams, and felt the intolerable -darkness go chill to her very soul. What it was that awakened her, -whether sound or sensation, the rush of the cold night air, or only some -consciousness of trouble and horror, she never could tell. She woke, but -not to darkness this time. Her eyes went to the light instinctively—to -the faint long opening of the window, which though all moonlight was -gone still marked itself upon the darkness around. She woke with a gasp -and suppressed cry. Her first sensation was the freshness of the air, -which showed that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> her window was open, and then that something moved in -that lighter space through which the wind blew. A terror, to which all -her previous fright seemed only preliminary, a horror of anticipation -and certainty, froze her very soul. Whatever it was, it had come, it had -her at last. She lay paralyzed, not able to move; her eyes, the only -capable things in her, straining into that dimness, a little lighter -than the darkness, where something unformed and horrible moved: moved! -that could be no delusion. She saw it with all the clearness of her -young, keen faculties, strung into the most dreadful acuteness of -perception—not what it was, but that it moved, now blocking the faint -grey, wavering in it, moving out of it, in, into the darkness of her -room, near her, close to her. Hetty lay motionless, in a trance of -unspeakable terror. What it was she could not say. It would have been -less horrible had she been able to see it. It was something that moved, -that was all. And then there followed faint, stealthy sounds as if of -contact with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> furniture, like some one groping in the dark: and -suddenly that dreadful something moved close to her, between her and the -window, touching the line of her bed. It wavered, seemed to pass, then -turned back. The miserable child did not breathe, kept still with one -last effort, turned to stone by delirious fear. But something, the -subtle consciousness that breathes from every living creature, betrayed -her in the portentous gloom. Suddenly she felt something; a hand—was it -a hand?—passed over her face; and then the thing, which was not -distinct enough to be called a shadow, dropped by her bedside, and drew -close—close with the breath of another human creature, upon her. “My -child, my little darling, my little darling! I’ve found you, I’ve found -you at last!” The breath, the voice, the touch of the cold hand, turned -Hetty’s brain. And then it was that those shrieks arose, the -indescribable, toneless, sharp discords, the cry of mortal terror passed -into delirium; and she knew no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span></p> - -<p>“She is not dead,” said Mr. Darrell, examining with the candle the -horrible, fixed, staring eyes that saw nothing, that were unconscious of -his examination and undazzled by the light. “She is not dead. I am not -sure that she isn’t worse than dead.”</p> - -<p>“How did it happen?” said the housekeeper, in quick, low tones.</p> - -<p>“How can I tell you?—negligence! Get hot water, hot irons—anything -that is handiest. We must bring back the circulation, if that is -possible. Oh, thank you!” The young doctor threw a vague glance at the -white figure that suddenly appeared from behind the curtains, and got -into the bed beside Hetty’s marble form. He did not recognise who it -was. “That’s the best thing you can do; rub her feet, get the blood back -anyhow—anyhow. Get hot water, some of you, quick! Go on with that while -I go and get something for her.”</p> - -<p>The housekeeper laid her hand upon him as he was hurrying away. “Is all -safe?” she asked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> in her low, quick voice. “Are you sure all’s safe?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently; “what’s that in comparison with this?”</p> - -<p>“It’s our first business all the same,” said the woman. The young doctor -made a despairing movement of his hand towards the bed and hurried away.</p> - -<p>Miss Hofland had taken the girl’s inanimate figure into her arms. “I’m -almost too cold myself to be of any use to her,” she said, shivering at -the contact of the frozen limbs. Mrs. Mills put down her candle by the -bedside, where it threw a strange side light upon that tragic mask on -the pillow, with the open mouth and staring, awful eyes. Was it Hetty? -Was it possible it could be Hetty? All human identity as of feature, or -age, or character seemed to have gone out of the rigid face. The -housekeeper had her wits all about her—the self-command, Miss Hofland -instinctively reflected, of a person not taken by surprise. She gave a -few orders<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> to the frightened women, who stood huddled together staring -at the foot of the bed, to shut the window, to light fires and prepare -hot water. Then she came back to the bedside, quite cool, professional, -unexcited. “If it’s cataleptic, all we can do won’t make much -difference,” she said calmly: and proceeded to open the clenched hands, -and disengage the coverings which were held as in a vice. “Ah!” said -Mrs. Mills, “she’s not so unconscious as she looks. She resisted me -then—only a little—but still she resisted. She’s coming round.”</p> - -<p>“How can it have happened?” Miss Hofland asked. She had got over her -first fright and horror, and to talk over a patient, however alarming -may be his or her state, is a temptation which nurses, when there are -two of them, can rarely resist. They were full of human kindness and -interest, and doing everything for her that could be done; but their -very interest and anxiety found relief in this discussion of the case.</p> - -<p>“Who can tell? She had left her window<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> open again. She never could be -cured of that. Her mother must have some fad about open windows.”</p> - -<p>“Then you think some one must have come in?”</p> - -<p>“Some one? Who was there to come in? Something—perhaps one of the -cattle or something—meaning no harm; or perhaps she only imagined it. -Imagination is rather worse than fact.”</p> - -<p>“I said a cow,” said Miss Hofland thoughtfully. “It would be very -strange finding a cow by your bedside in the middle of the night: it -might be any sort of a monster: but, goodness! not to overwhelm a girl -like that! I think she’s not quite so cold. I think she’s not quite so -rigid. Hetty, wake up, my dear!”</p> - -<p>“Let her alone,” said the housekeeper. “She can’t hear you. If we get -her circulation back, that will be the best chance.”</p> - -<p>“But how could it have happened?” repeated Miss Hofland, “for I don’t -much believe in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> cow. I can’t say I believe in the cow. Oh, how her -poor eyes stare! Do you believe she doesn’t see, though she stares so? -Hetty! oh, shake it off, darling, shake it off! If you will only make an -effort!”</p> - -<p>“What is the use?” said Mrs. Mills. “She can’t hear you. If she could, -it would be bad for her to be roused so. Young Darrell is very clever, -they say; he’ll do all that can be done.”</p> - -<p>“He looked as if he knew what it was.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, here he is coming back! don’t let him hear you,” cried the -housekeeper, and then the colloquy came to an end.</p> - -<p>But the case was not so simple as Miss Hofland thought. No power of -making an effort remained in poor little Hetty. Her previous terrors, -which had been chiefly of the imagination, had undermined her strength. -She had no longer any force to resist this overwhelming horror when it -came. Whether it was her intelligence which had been killed by the blow, -whether she were only stunned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> temporarily, or if it was a moral -paralysis of the whole being which had laid her low, could not be -divined. She came round a little from that first trance. After a time -her eyes could close, her breathing began to be faintly audible, the -rigidity of her limbs relaxed. After a longer interval she came to -herself so much as to say “Thank you” faintly to the nurses, and to -swallow, though with difficulty, the nourishment they administered. -During this period there had been the greatest difficulty in satisfying -Hetty’s correspondents at home. She had already fallen out of her early -punctuality in respect to letter-writing, which smoothed matters a -little; but when day by day went by without producing any amelioration -in her state, and when letters began to rain upon the house at Horton -full of demands for explanation, and to know what was the matter, Mr. -Darrell one day announced to the housekeeper with some haste, and an -unnecessary sharpness of tone, “I’ll tell you what it is. I’m going to -send for her mother, and that without delay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mills looked up in consternation. “Her mother!” she cried. “The -last woman in the world to come here!”</p> - -<p>“She may be the last woman or anything else you please, but she is the -only person that has anything to do here, and I am going to send for -her. Look there! do you think that can be allowed to go on?” the young -man cried, turning half round to where Hetty sat like a waxen image, -supported by cushions in a chair. She lay back as white as the pillow -upon which her head rested, her eyelids flickering now and then, her -thin hands crossed in her lap. She made no complaint, said scarcely -anything except that feeble “Thank you,” when anything was brought her, -or when some of her anxious attendants paused to smooth her cushions, or -ask if she wanted anything. It was a sight to melt the hardest heart.</p> - -<p>“And it is more than a week since it happened,” said young Darrell, “and -that is all we have been able to do. You are an excellent nurse, Mrs. -Mills; you have neglected nothing: and Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> Hofland does everything -that kindness can suggest: but you see yourself that we make no -progress. I can do nothing more; her mother may.”</p> - -<p>“Time will make it all right,” the housekeeper said. “Of course I am -very sorry—I would give anything that it had not happened. Of course -the poor little thing has got a dreadful shock. But she is very young, -and in time she will get all right.”</p> - -<p>“If you like to trust to time with such a delicate thing as a girl’s -life,” said the young doctor, “I don’t. We must do something. Either -that and try the effect of nature, or else I must have the best -authority from town to see her; and you know what questions a physician -would ask, and perhaps you know how we could answer him. I don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Darrell,” said the housekeeper, “you’re my superior. I have to take -my orders from you. All the same, I consider that our first business is -to look after what we were put here for. I cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> acknowledge that a -child frightened, even though she is frightened into fits, is any reason -for giving up.”</p> - -<p>“There are a hundred reasons for giving up,” cried the young man -passionately. “I would give up this moment if I could, if there was any -one to give up my charge to. It’s neither right nor necessary, what -we’re doing. I have never stopped regretting I undertook it, never -since——”</p> - -<p>“Say the truth, Mr. Darrell, never since—this young lady came here! -I’ve seen it from the first. She’s not much more than a child, but you -think more of her than of every one else in the house.”</p> - -<p>The young doctor blushed like a girl to the very roots of his hair. “I -have no intention of answering any such accusation,” he said. “It is -entirely uncalled for, and quite unjustifiable. I have done my duty to -the utmost, if such a charge could ever be any one’s duty. My doubts -have a very different foundation. But I don’t go so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> far as to sacrifice -life to my engagements, and therefore I’m going to telegraph to Mrs. -Asquith to beg her to come here at once, without an hour’s delay.”</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll telegraph to Mrs. Rotherham,” said the housekeeper. “Oh, -dear! she is so far away. How can you betray a poor lady that is so far -away? I’ll send for the lawyer. It was he that brought this girl here, -and he had better come and take her away. Yes, that’s it. Let’s make a -compromise, Doctor. Send her away. To go home, of course, is the best -thing for her. Change of air, and change of scene, and her own -folks—that’s far, far better. I’ll run the chance of whatever she may -say when she gets better. Let us send her away.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Darrell turned and looked again at the motionless figure in the -chair. His face softened into the deepest, tender pity. “If you think -what she was when she came here,” he said, “all full of life and spirit, -and to look at her now, like a withered flower! No. I can’t take the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> -responsibility of sending her away. Her mother, or a physician, one or -the other! I can’t have her life and her reason to answer for all alone. -I am going to telegraph to Mrs. Asquith, now.”</p> - -<p>The housekeeper stopped him, catching at his arm. “Do you know who Mrs. -Asquith is?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Tenby told me—a relation. Well, so much the better. I am sick of -my share in it,” cried the young man. They had been standing talking at -the window. Hetty had been moved to another room on the other side of -the house, where nothing could remind her of the terrible incident which -had changed her whole being, and which was lighted by a large recessed -window. He left the housekeeper standing there, and went up to the girl, -sitting motionless in her chair. “Is there anything you would like?” he -said. “Can I get you anything? Shall I move you nearer the window? Do -you think you would like to see any one? Shall I call Miss Hofland? Is -there any one whom you would like me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> call?” There was a faint hope -in his mind that she would say “Mamma,” which she had cried so piteously -at first. But Hetty said nothing save “Thank you,” with the faintest -movement of her lips.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_303.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_303.jpg" height="172" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_304.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_304.jpg" width="362" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>AN INNOCENT SUFFERER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE house had never been a lively house, but it had turned into the -dreariest of habitations now. All those comforts which Miss Hofland had -felt to make up for so much did not compensate for the absence of Hetty, -or what was worse, for the presence of Hetty, spell-bound in that great -chair, and for the innocent questions of Rhoda, who asked and asked, -every new demand being but an echo of the questions which already were -thrilling through the governess’s heart. “But why?” Rhoda said. “What -made her like that? What has happened to her? Things can’t happen, can -they, without a cause? Why has Hetty turned like that? She was never -like that before. If you will not tell me I will ask Mr. Darrell; he is -the doctor, and he must know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“She got some dreadful fright, my dear. Don’t speak to Mr. Darrell, for -I don’t think he knows; and if he does know, he would not tell a little -girl like you.”</p> - -<p>But this answer did not satisfy Rhoda. She caught Mr. Darrell, as it -happened, exactly at this moment when he was going out. “Oh, Mr. -Darrell, I want you to tell me what has made Hetty like that. What is -the matter with Hetty? Oh, yes, I have seen her. Do you think they could -shut her up and hide her from me? Mr. Darrell, what has happened to -Hetty? You are the doctor, and you must know.”</p> - -<p>“The doctor doesn’t know everything,” he said.</p> - -<p>“But very near everything,” said Rhoda. “She is very ill, I am sure. -Tell me what it is, and I won’t trouble you any more.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell what it is,” said the young doctor. “I wish I could, then -perhaps I might know how to make her better. I am going now to send for -some one who perhaps can do it. It is only perhaps, but I am going to -try.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Another doctor?” asked Miss Hofland. “I can understand that you don’t -like the responsibility. I shouldn’t if I were in your place.”</p> - -<p>“Not another doctor, at present, but her mother,” Mr. Darrell said; and -he went off and left them, though it was scarcely civil to do so, when -they had so many questions to ask.</p> - -<p>“Her mother!” Rhoda said, pondering. “Is it a good thing to bring her -mother? What good can her mother do her? She is not a doctor. I should -think Mr. Darrell himself would be more good than that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, the very sight of your mother makes such a difference when -there is anything the matter with you,” said Miss Hofland. “At least,” -she added presently, “all the girls say so. I never had one, for my -part.”</p> - -<p>Rhoda looked up at her with intelligent but unfathomable eyes, and said -nothing. It appeared that the words did not bring any warmer response -from Rhoda’s heart.</p> - -<p>But it would be vain to attempt to describe the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> agitation and trouble -which was caused in the parsonage by Mr. Darrell’s telegram. “Will Mrs. -Asquith come at once? Daughter ill, not dangerous, but critical. -Carriage will meet nine-thirty train.”</p> - -<p>“It must be something very bad,” Mary said.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear, I hope not. ‘Not dangerous, but critical.’ You must not -frighten yourself. You must husband your strength,” said the parson; but -he spoke with a forced voice, and had grown very pale, paler indeed than -she was; for she had so many things to think of, and he thought only of -Hetty—poor little Hetty, papa’s pet, as they always called her—ill and -far from home.</p> - -<p>“You must take charge of the little ones, Janey. You must not let them -make a noise or annoy papa; you must see that the boys have their -breakfast in good time for school, and don’t let Mary Jane oversleep -herself. Papa will let you have the little clock with the alarum in your -room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, mamma! I will try and remember everything,” said Janey among -her tears.</p> - -<p>“Get in the books every week, and look over them carefully. Don’t let -anything be put down that we haven’t had—you know how careless people -are sometimes; and above all keep the house quiet when papa is in his -study. You know the importance of that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma!” said Janey, “do you think then that you shall be so very, -very long away?”</p> - -<p>“I hope I maybe back again to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow,” said -Mary briskly. “It will depend upon how I find her. I don’t doubt in the -least home will be the best thing for her; but in case I should be -detained,” she said smiling, with her eyes very bright and liquid, each -about to shed a tear, “it is so much better to mention everything. Of -course I shall write; but, Janey dear, you know you have not the habit -of minding everything as—as she had——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, why don’t you say Hetty? Why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> don’t you call her by her -name? It is so awful to hear you say <i>she</i>, as if—as if——”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I call her by her name?—my dear little Hetty, my own little -girl! Oh! and to think that it was I that sent her away!”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t dangerous, Mary, we have got the doctor’s word for that,” said -her husband.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, to be sure we have. I am not at all frightened. You know when -anything is the matter with her she gets very down, and strangers would -not understand. I am all ready, Harry. No, I don’t want a cab. One of -the boys can carry my bag to the station, and I would rather walk. I -shall have no fatigue, you know, in the railway; it will be quite a rest -for me, sitting still for so many hours.”</p> - -<p>“A third-class journey is not much of a rest,” said the parson, shaking -his head.</p> - -<p>“And the carriage to meet me when I get there,” said Mary with a smile; -“I shall feel quite a lady again, like old times, stepping out of the -third class.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Half the family went with her to the station to see her off. Janey had -to deny herself and stay at home with the little ones, and keep -everything in order; for Mary Jane was young, and not to be trusted all -by herself. Janey felt as if her heart was wrenched out of her when -mamma went away to nurse Hetty, who was ill and perhaps dying, while she -must stay here and watch the little ones playing, who knew nothing about -it and could not understand. To have gone with her to the train and seen -her go away, as the others did, would have been something, but even that -solace was denied. To the younger ones it was something like an -unexpected gaiety to see mamma off, and watch the bustle of the train. -They had little or no doubt that Hetty would be all right as soon as -mamma went to take care of her, and the boys could not help feeling a -little important as they relieved each other in carrying the bag.</p> - -<p>Mary, for her part, when she had got into the train and smiled for the -last time at the eager group, and waved her last good-bye, had a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span> -sad half-hour in the corner, with her veil down, crying and praying for -her child. But after that she tried not to think, which is one of the -hardest of the habitual processes through which a mind has to go which -requires to be always fit for the service of a number of others, and -consequently has to keep itself well in hand. She had been obliged to do -this many times before, and though it was harder than usual, now that -she was alone and had no immediate occupation to take off her thoughts, -yet she did more or less succeed in the effort. There was a poor weakly -young mother in the carriage, going to join her sailor husband -somewhere, with a troublesome baby whom she could not manage. And this -was a great help to Mrs. Asquith in keeping off thought and subduing the -pain of anxiety. She said to herself this was one advantage of the third -class. Had she been travelling luxuriously with a first-class -compartment all to herself, she would not have been able to stop herself -from thinking. This softened even the thrill of old associations which -went through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span> her, when, looking up as the train stopped, she perceived -the little station; and, beyond it, the familiar landscape which she had -not seen for so long. Was it only sixteen years? It looked like -centuries, and yet not much more than a day. Nothing, however, had ever -been at Horton in her time like the spruce brougham which was waiting -for her, with the smart footman—smarter than any one in the service of -the Prescotts had ever been. Amid all the familiarity and the -strangeness Mary’s heart sank within her when the servant came up. “The -young lady’s just the same, madam,” the man said.</p> - -<p>“Can you tell me what’s the matter? Oh! can you tell me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, as no one knows,” said the servant, as he arranged a rug -over her knees.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if you will be so kind—as fast as you can go,” said Mary.</p> - -<p>He seemed to look at her pitifully, she thought. All better hopes, if -she had any, flew at the sight. She felt now that Hetty must be dying, -that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span> case must be desperate. This delivered her from all feeling in -respect to the old house where she had been brought up, the fields, the -trees, the park—everything which she had known. What did she care about -these associations now? She was as indifferent as if she had been but a -week away, or as if she had never seen the place before.</p> - -<p>The doctor met her at the door, looking so grave. She prepared herself -for the worst again, and entered the old home without seeing or caring -what manner of place it was. “Let me explain to you before you see her, -Mrs. Asquith,” Darrell said, leading the way into the old library, which -she knew so much better than he did.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t keep me from her! Let me go to my child! Don’t break it to -me! I can see—I can see in your face!”</p> - -<p>“She is not in any danger,” he said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Asquith turned upon him with a gasp, having lost all power of -speech: and then the self-control of misery gave way. She dropped<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span> into -the nearest chair, and saved her brain and relieved her heart by tears. -“May I trust you?” she asked piteously, with her quivering lips; “Hetty, -my child—is in no danger?” as soon as she was able to speak.</p> - -<p>“None that I can discover; but she is in a very alarming state. She has -had a fright. It seems to have paralysed her whole being. I hope -everything from your sudden appearance.”</p> - -<p>“Paralysed!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean in the ordinary sense of the word—turned her to stone, I -should say. Oh, Mrs. Asquith, I fear you will think we have ill -discharged the trust you gave us. Your daughter has been frightened out -of her senses, out of herself.”</p> - -<p>Mary had risen from her seat to go to her Hetty; she stared at him for a -moment, and dropped feebly back again. “Do you mean that my child—my -child is—mad?” she said with horror, clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no!” cried the young doctor. “Her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span> mind, I hope, may not be -touched. She is in a state I can’t explain. She takes no notice of -anything. I thought it was catalepsy at first. You will be more -frightened when you see her than perhaps there is any need for -being——”</p> - -<p>“Doctor—if you are the doctor—take me to her, take me to her! that is -better than explanation.”</p> - -<p>“Bear with me a little, Mrs. Asquith. I want you to come in suddenly. I -want to try the shock of your appearance.”</p> - -<p>“Take me to my child!” said Mary; “I cannot bear all these -preliminaries. I have a right to be with Hetty, wherever she is. Where -is she? Tell me what room she is in. I know my way.”</p> - -<p>“Just one moment—one moment!” he said. He led the way to the room which -had been the morning-room in Mary’s day, the brightest room in the -house, looking out upon the flowers, and then left her at the door. -“Come in,” he said, “in five minutes; throw open the door; make what -noise you can—oh! forgive me—and let her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span> see you fully. Don’t come -too quick. It is for her sake. If she knows you, all will go well.”</p> - -<p>“If she knows me!” cried poor Mary. These terrible words subdued her in -her impatience and almost anger. She stood at the door counting the time -by the beatings of her heart. Then she pushed it open, as he told her. -Hetty’s chair had been turned round to face the door, and she sat in it, -her pale hands folded in her lap, her face, like marble, against the -white pillow, her eyes looking steadily before her, with an -extraordinary abstract gaze. Mary stood for a moment, herself paralysed -by that strange sight, clasping her hands, with a cry of trouble and -consternation. Then she flew forward and flung herself on her knees -before this marble image of her child. “Hetty! Hetty! Speak to me,” she -cried, clasping her arms round the inanimate figure. “Hetty!” Then, with -a terrible cry, “Don’t you know your mother? don’t you know your mother, -my darling, my poor child?”</p> - -<p>Mary perceived none of the people behind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_317.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_317.jpg" width="557" height="354" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>HETTY! HETTY! SPEAK TO ME.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span>’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">watching so anxiously the effect of her entrance, which had been indeed -far more effective, being entirely natural, than anything they had -planned. She saw only the waxen whiteness, the unresponsive silence, of -the poor little soul in prison. She went on kissing the white face, the -little limp hands, pouring out appeals and cries. “Oh, my child! Oh, -Hetty, Hetty! Don’t you know me? I’m your mother, my darling. I’ve come -to fetch you, to take you home. Hetty, my sweet, papa’s breaking his -heart for you; and poor Janey daren’t even cry, dear, for she must take -care of them all while you and I are away. And, Hetty, the baby, your -little baby—Hetty, Hetty! my own darling! Oh, Hetty, say a word to -me—say a word!”</p> - -<p>The statue moved a little; a faint tinge of colour came into the marble -face; the limp little hands unfolded, fluttered a little, made as though -they would go round the mother’s neck. “Mamma!” Hetty said, stammering -as when a child begins to speak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span></p> - -<p>And then there awoke a chorus of voices saying, “Thank God!” The women -were all over-joyed, thinking the worst was past. Darrell had said if -she recognised her mother—and it was evident that she had done so. But -he himself stood aloof, keeping his troubled looks out of their sight. -And after Mrs. Asquith had sat by her daughter’s side for hours, telling -her everything as if Hetty fully understood, saying a hundred things to -her—news of home, caresses, tendernesses without end—it presently -became evident to all that very little real advance had been made. Hetty -said, “Mamma!” as she had said, “Thank you,” but she did no more.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_320.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_320.jpg" height="129" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_321.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_321.jpg" width="298" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>MARY’S INVESTIGATIONS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>RS. ASQUITH kept to all appearance perfectly tranquil during the rest -of that evening. It was a strange and affecting sight to see her by the -side of Hetty’s chair, talking with a smiling countenance and every -appearance of ease and an unburdened heart. She kept telling all the -nursery stories, all the little family jokes, every kind of trifling -happy circumstance, the commonplaces of the family, to her daughter’s -dulled and heavy ear. The spectators could not understand this strange -sight. <i>They</i> were anxious, but she seemed free from care. They -contemplated that little marble image of poor little Hetty with piteous -eyes, shaking their heads aside, and saying to each other that, after -all, the appearance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span> of her mother had not done what was hoped. But the -mother sat and smiled and talked as if she had been altogether -unconscious that Hetty was not as she had been. Miss Hofland, though she -could not understand, though she could not approve, this strange mode of -action, got interested in spite of herself in all those unknown -children, and found herself softly laughing in the background at the -tricks of the boys, and Janey’s matronly demeanour, and the sweet little -sayings of the baby. It all looked so pretty, and tender, and sweet. But -how that woman could talk, and talk, and smile, and tell those stories -with poor Hetty blanched and unresponsive like marble, wax—anything -that you can think of which is most unlike flesh and blood, was what -Miss Hofland could not understand. She felt very angry. She said to -herself, “That woman has so many, she has no heart for this one;” and -felt as if she loved poor Hetty better than her mother did, who showed -so little feeling. Rhoda, who had stolen in when no one was looking, -was,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span> on the contrary, fascinated by Mrs. Asquith. She crept closer and -closer, and at last curled herself up on the skirt of the stranger’s -gown like a little dog, and listened, and laughed, and clapped her hands -at all those stories. “Oh, tell me a little more about little Mary! Oh! -what did baby say?” Rhoda cried, pushing closer and closer. Mrs. Asquith -put one arm round the child, though without looking at her. She could -think even of that strange child, who had been the cause of it all, with -Hetty lying motionless there!</p> - -<p>But all this had no effect upon Hetty, the lookers-on thought. An -occasional faint smile came to the corners of her mouth, something so -faint, so evanescent, that it could scarcely be called a smile; a faint -little colour, almost imperceptible, came upon her marble paleness; now -and then she said, “Mamma!” quite inconsequently, not as an answer to -anything, and the tiny hands that had been folded in her lap were folded -now in one of her mother’s hands, which seemed to communicate a little -warmth, a little life—a poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span> result to have effected by the heroic -measure of sending for her, and admitting a stranger, against every -rule, to this secluded house. The housekeeper was very impatient of the -whole business. “You did it against everything I could say; and nothing -has come of it,” she said.</p> - -<p>“As for that, we can’t tell yet,” said the doctor, naturally taking his -own part; but he was very anxious, and did not seem to have taken much -comfort from the new arrival. He had gone into the library to talk it -over with his coadjutor, while Hetty was being conveyed to bed. The -house was very quiet, the room badly lighted, the lamp on the table -bringing out the anxious expression on the young man’s troubled face, -and half showing the figure of the housekeeper, who stood on the other -side of the table. The light fell upon her hands clasped in front, and -showed her person vaguely, but her face was in the shade.</p> - -<p>“The right thing to do would have been to send the girl off to that man -who treats hysteria,” she said; “he would soon have brought her to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> her -senses. What good can the mother do?—a silly woman telling all that -nonsense that the girl can’t hear, and would not care for if she did! -Rhoda likes it, to be sure,” she said, with a short laugh; “and perhaps -she thinks that to make an impression upon Rhoda, who will be an -heiress, is always worth her while.”</p> - -<p>“It is no part of your business, or mine either, to judge Mrs. Asquith,” -young Darrell said impatiently; but there could be little doubt that he -was disappointed too. The effect of the mother’s first appearance had -not been what he hoped.</p> - -<p>“And here we’ve brought in, against all our promises, just the last -person in the world that ought to be admitted into this house.”</p> - -<p>“I made no promises,” said the young doctor hurriedly. “How could I on -this subject? No one could have foreseen such a combination of -circumstances—a near relation when we expected a stranger.”</p> - -<p>“Only a cousin,” the housekeeper said quickly; “but now the thing is to -get rid of her as soon as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span> possible, and in the meantime to keep her -completely in the—— Good gracious! I beg your pardon, ma’am,” cried -Mrs. Mills, quickly stepping out of the way.</p> - -<p>“I knocked, but you did not hear me,” said Mary. “You forget that I know -my way about this house.” She passed the housekeeper by, and came up to -where Darrell was sitting, and drew a chair to the table near him. “I -have got my poor child to bed. She looks as if she had fallen asleep; -whether it is sleep or stupor I can’t tell, but she is very quiet. Now -will you tell me how it happened?” Mary said. Her voice was very quiet, -but very serious—not the voice of one who was to be trifled with. -Instinctively both the listeners perceived this. Darrell cast an -anxious, almost imploring glance into the surrounding dimness of the -half-lighted room, and the housekeeper stirred from one foot to the -other with an involuntary motion. She had not thought much of Mrs. -Asquith as an antagonist, but now she began to change her mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span></p> - -<p>“How it happened?” said the young doctor, faltering. “I am afraid it was -a fright. She got a—fright.”</p> - -<p>“We cannot tell exactly how it happened,” said the housekeeper quickly, -“for it happened in the middle of the night.”</p> - -<p>“But you must have some sort of understanding. A thing like that can’t -happen in a house without some one knowing. How was it? even if you -can’t tell me what it was.”</p> - -<p>“It all arose from this, ma’am,” said the housekeeper, “that Miss -Asquith would have her window open at night. Some people I know have -fads on that subject; if I asked her once, I asked her a dozen times not -to do it, but she would. She would not be guided by me.”</p> - -<p>“She left her window open all night? Well, and what happened?” Mary -said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Darrell cleared his throat. A kind of loathing of the glib woman, -who was so ready to answer for him, quickened his speech. “So far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span> as we -can tell, something came into her room and frightened her,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Something? Oh! this is trifling,” cried Mary impatiently. “Many, many a -night have I slept in this house with my window open. The windows were -always open. What is there about, to come in at an open window in the -middle of the night?”</p> - -<p>The two culprits exchanged a glance across the table. The housekeeper -could see the doctor’s pale face full of revelations, but he could not -see hers. “That’s what we don’t know,” she said. “Miss Hofland will tell -you that she warned her just as I did. Supposing it was something quite -innocent—as harmless as you please—one of the sheep in the park, or a -cow! A cow’s an innocent thing, but it would give you a terrible fright -in the middle of the night; or even a rabbit or a squirrel,” continued -Mrs. Mills, getting confidence as she went on; “it was one of the -animals about the place, for anything we know.”</p> - -<p>“What do you know? will you tell me exactly?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> What roused you first? and -when you went to her what did you see?”</p> - -<p>The housekeeper shivered a little. “We found her lying on her bed, poor -dear! with her eyes staring, the bedclothes clenched in her hands as if -she had tried to cover her face. Oh, Mrs. Asquith! I thought the child -was dead.” She stopped with a half sob. “And the half of the French -window wide open—it’s not a sash window in that room—standing wide -open, showing how it had come in.”</p> - -<p>“How what had come in?” said Mary huskily, scarcely able to command her -voice.</p> - -<p>“How can I tell? Some wild creature out of the woods—some of the -animals that had got loose about the farm.”</p> - -<p>“Was there any trace of an animal? There must have been some trace!”</p> - -<p>“Or it might,” said the housekeeper with a sob, the strong excitement of -the moment gaining upon her, “have been a tramp that had hidden about -the place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mary pushed her chair from the table, and covered her face with her -hands. But it was only for a moment. She came back to herself, and to -the examination of these unwilling witnesses, before they could draw -breath, but not before a low indignant outcry, “No, no!” had burst from -the young doctor’s lips. She turned upon him with the speed of -lightning. “Mr. Darrell!” she cried, “was it a tramp that got into my -child’s room in the middle of the night? Speak the truth before God!”</p> - -<p>What did she suspect or fear? The question flashed through his mind with -a shock of strange sensation. “No,” he said, looking at her, “it was no -tramp.”</p> - -<p>“And you know who it was?”</p> - -<p>She rose up and confronted him with her pale, set face, holding him with -her eyes, which were like Hetty’s eyes, in the strain of the horrible -gaze that had settled in them that night. He was helpless in her hands -like a child. “Yes,” he said, “I know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>She could not speak, but she made him an imperative gesture to go on. He -was no longer the unwilling witness, he was the conscious criminal at -the bar.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Asquith,” he said, with a shiver of nervous emotion, “it needs a -long explanation. I would have to tell you many things to make you -understand.”</p> - -<p>“Many things which you have no right to tell any one, Mr. Darrell,” the -housekeeper said.</p> - -<p>Mary once more insisted with an imperious wave of her hand. The young -man made a nervous pause. “I have an—invalid gentleman under my -charge,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Darrell!” cried the housekeeper again, “do you remember all you’ve -promised? You’ve no right to go against them that support you, them that -pay you.”</p> - -<p>“What is that to me?” cried Mary quickly. “What do I want with your -secrets? Tell me about my child!”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you everything,” he said. “It has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span> been against my -conscience always. I’ll have this burden no longer. He wanders about at -night, we can’t help it, he slips from our hands. And I suppose he saw -the open window. I—I was too late to keep him back. I found him there. -He thought she was his child, whom he thinks he has lost. When I heard -her scream I knew how it was, and I got him away.”</p> - -<p>“Is this the truth?” Mrs Asquith said; “is this <i>all</i> the truth?”</p> - -<p>“It is everything,” cried the young man; “there is nothing more to tell -you, but there is more for me to do. I give up this charge, Mrs. Mills. -I will do it no more, it is against my conscience. If he only knew a -little better he could bring us both up for conspiracy. I will clear my -conscience of it this very day.”</p> - -<p>“If you are such a fool!” the housekeeper said in her excitement. She -went round to him and caught him by the arm, and led him aside, talking -eagerly. “<i>She’ll</i> pay no attention. What does she care for anything but -her girl?” the woman said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary had seated herself again suddenly, her brain swimming, her heart -beating. Thank God! she said to herself. She did not know what she had -feared, but something more dreadful, worse than this; her relief was -greater than words could say. She sat down to recover herself. What the -housekeeper said was true. She cared for nothing but her girl. What were -their secrets to her? If somebody was wronged Mary did not feel that it -was her business to set it right. It was her child or whom, and of whom -alone, she was thinking; and in all probability no further thoughts of -the mysterious invalid would have crossed her mind, but for this -incident which now occurred, and which for the moment was nothing but an -annoyance to her, detaining her from Hetty. There was a knock at the -door, to which the others in their preoccupation paid no attention. -After a second knock the door was softly opened, and one of the women -servants came in, a tidy person, in the dark gown and white cap and -apron, which is a respectable maid-servan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span>t’s livery. She hesitated for -a moment, and then said, “Oh, please, is Mrs. Asquith here?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am here,” cried Mary, quickly getting up, with the idea that she -was being called to Hetty. The woman came in, hurried forward, and made -curtsey after curtsey—a little sniff of suppressed crying attending -each—“Oh, ma’am, don’t you know me? Oh, ma’am, I’ve never forgotten -you! Oh, please, I am Bessie Brown,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Are you indeed Bessie Brown? I am very glad to see you,” said Mrs. -Asquith. “And are you here in service? And how is it I never heard about -you from my Hetty? You were the first nurse she ever had.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ma’am, is that our baby? and me never to know! I never heard her -name right. I never knew. Oh, to think that poor young lady is our baby! -And the dreadful, dreadful fright she got! But oh! ma’am, perhaps now -you’ve come it is all for the best.”</p> - -<p>“How can it be for the best that my child<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span> should be so ill?” said Mary. -“Oh, she is so ill! To see her is enough to break one’s heart.”</p> - -<p>And in the softness of this sympathy, the first touch of the old -naturalness and familiarity which she had yet felt, Mary too began to -cry in the fulness of her heart.</p> - -<p>“The house is dreadful changed, ma’am, and everything going wrong, I -think, though it mayn’t be a servant’s place to speak.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid,” Mrs. Asquith said, “I am selfish. I think too much of my -own. I can’t enter into the troubles of the new family. It’s only of the -old I can think when I am here.”</p> - -<p>“But oh! it’s no new family, ma’am; it’s the same family, it’s your own, -own family,” cried Bessie Brown. “If you’re married ever so, you can’t -give your natural relations up.”</p> - -<p>“My natural relations!” Mary cried.</p> - -<p>But the conversation by this time had caught the watchful ear of the -housekeeper, who left Darrell and came back to see what was going on -here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Brown,” she said, “what are you doing in this room? who told you to -come and talk to a lady who is paying a visit in the house? I hope, Mrs. -Asquith, you’ll excuse her. There is no rudeness meant,” the housekeeper -said.</p> - -<p>“My natural relations,” Mary repeated. “I don’t know what you mean. The -house has passed into other hands. I don’t suppose there are any of my -relations here.”</p> - -<p>“Brown, you had better go to your work. I’ll answer the lady’s -questions. We did not know till the other day that there was any -relationship.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Mary bewildered, “it is Mrs. Rotherham——”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham. My lady was an heiress. She married Mr. -Prescott——”</p> - -<p>The discovery was too bewildering and strange to convey itself -distinctly to Mary’s troubled brain. She said only something which she -felt to be entirely irrelevant.</p> - -<p>“Who, then, is the invalid gentleman?” she cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337">{337}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_337.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_337.jpg" width="362" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE SICK-ROOM.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>RS. ASQUITH took her place in Hetty’s room to keep watch there, with -indescribable anxiety and alarm. She had been warned that every night -since that mysterious occurrence Hetty had seemed to go over again in -her dreams the midnight visit which had jarred her being. It had been -the effort of her nurses to soothe and silence her, to get her, if -possible, to forget; but every night the dreadful recollection had come -back. Mary sat down to watch, feeling that this moment of return upon -the cause of all the trouble might be the moment of recovery, if she but -knew how to use it aright. But that was the question, of far more -importance for the moment than those other wonders and anxieties<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338">{338}</a></span> which -had arisen in her mind, and which she had not been able to satisfy. How -was she to act that this moment might be the critical one, that she -might be able to penetrate within the mist that enveloped Hetty? She -tried to think, tried to form for herself a plan of action, but with -trembling and doubt. The child’s life, the child’s reason, might depend -upon her own presence of mind, her power to touch the right chord, her -wisdom. Mary had never taken credit to herself for wisdom. She had never -had to face the intricate problems of human consciousness; how to -minister to a mind diseased had never been among her many duties. Out of -all the simple calls of her practical life, out of her nursery, where -everything was so innocent, how was she to reach at once to the height -of such a crisis as this? She tried to apply all her unused faculties to -it; but they eluded her, and ran into frightened anticipations, -endeavours to realise what was about to happen. She had no confidence -that she would keep her self-possession, or have her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339">{339}</a></span> wits about her -when the moment come. Oh, if Harry had but been here! But then she -remembered all he had to do, and was glad to think that he would be -quietly asleep and unconscious of what was going on; and that after all, -the fatigue, and the disquietude and dreadful fear that she would not be -equal to the necessities of the occasion, would be endured by herself -alone. He had plenty to trouble him, she reflected. He would be wretched -enough in his anxiety, without wishing him to share this vigil. And then -Mary appealed silently to the only One Who is never absent in trouble, -imploring Him to stand by her; and felt a little relief in that, and in -the softening tears that came with her prayer.</p> - -<p>The room was very still, and so was the house, all wrapt in sleep and -silence. The housekeeper and Miss Hofland had both offered to sit up, -but she had rejected all companionship. She could not have borne the -presence of a stranger, or the possibility of any third person coming -between her and her child. A nightlight burned faintly in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340">{340}</a></span> corner; the -light of the fire diffused a soft glow. All was warm and still and -breathless in the deep quiet of the night. And as the hours passed on so -still, bringing no change with them, Mary’s thoughts wandered to the -past, into which she seemed to have come back when she entered this -house. Her youth seemed to come back: the familiar figures which she had -not seen for years surrounded her once more. Hetty slept, or seemed to -sleep, not moving in her bed; and in Mary’s thoughts the familiar room -took back its old appearance. This was where the mother of the house had -sat with her basket of coloured worsteds and her endless work, which was -never done. And there the girls had their little establishments: Anna -with her music, Sophie with her little drawings. Neither the drawings -nor the music had been of high quality, but Mary’s anxious heart went -away to them in the midst of this vigil, and got a moment’s refreshment -and affectionate soft consolation out of their faded memory. She had not -been of much account<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341">{341}</a></span> in those days, but they had all been good to her. -And now they were both at the other end of the world, knowing nothing of -Mary, as Mary knew nothing of them. And Percy, where was he, the -handsome, careless fellow? And John, poor John? Ah! that struck a -different chord in her musings. Where was he, if this house was still -his? and who was the wife that had made him rich, and then left him, and -left her child in this mysterious way? Where was John? Was it true that -he had lost his wits (he had so few, dear fellow, at the best of -times!), and was shut up somewhere in a madhouse, as had been said? Shut -up in a madhouse, he who never would have hurt a fly, shut up—shut up!</p> - -<p>Mary’s thoughts had run away with her, had made her forget for a moment -what was her chief object, her only object. The start she gave, when a -new and alarming idea thus came into her mind, brought her back to -herself. She had drifted towards that wondering suspicion, that -undefined alarm on the evening before, after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342">{342}</a></span> Bessie’s revelation, and -Mrs. Mills’ evident desire to stave off all further questions. Who was -the invalid gentleman? she had asked with an awakening of curiosity, of -interest, and wonder. But the housekeeper and the doctor had been called -most opportunely away, and she had got no answer to a question. She -started when it came back thus in sudden overwhelming force. But the -very keenness of the question, which felt almost like a discovery, -brought her back to herself with a guilty sensation, as if she had -forgotten Hetty in thus following out another train of thought. And what -was all the world in comparison with Hetty, whose well-being now hung in -the balance, and whom perhaps her mother, dreaming and thinking of -others, might miss the moment to save? She recovered herself in an -instant, and brought herself back with all her mind concentrated upon -her child. Hetty lay still as in depths of sleep; but from time to time -her eyes were opened, though only to close again, and the sight of those -open eyes chilled the mother through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343">{343}</a></span> and through, and drove everything -else out of her mind. It was now the most ghostly depth of night, the -darkest and the coldest, when morning seems to begin to wake with a -chill and shiver. Hetty’s eyes had closed again, and Mrs. Asquith had -resumed her seat to watch, with a nervous anticipation of the -crisis—when presently the bed shook with the nervous shuddering of the -little form that lay on it; and starting up, she found Hetty with her -eyes wide open, an agonised look upon her face, and her hands clutching -the bedclothes, as had been described to her. The mother’s dress -brushing the bed as she rose hastily, seemed to increase the dreamer’s -horror. She began to move from side to side, moaning as in a nightmare, -struggling to rise. And then a babble of broken words came to her lips. -What was she saying? Mrs. Asquith listened with keen anguish, her -faculties sharpened to their utmost strain. Was it some explanation, -some complaint, that Hetty was trying to utter, something that would -make this mystery clear?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344">{344}</a></span> Her mother made out that it was the same thing -over and over, now more now less clear. Her ears made out the words at -last by dint of repetition—Heaven knows, the most innocent words!—“My -child, my little darling! my child, my little darling! have I found you -at last?”</p> - -<p>When this had gone on for some time, Mary in her excitement could bear -it no longer. She raised her child suddenly in her arms, clasping her -close, taking possession of her in a transport of love and pity. -“Hetty!” she cried, “Hetty!” almost with a shriek. “What is it? what is -it? Tell me what it is!”</p> - -<p>The girl uttered another cry, a wild and piercing shriek, as shrill as -that which on the former occasion had roused the house. She started up -in her bed, struggling, pushing Mrs. Asquith’s arms away, looking wildly -round her with the frantic gaze of terror. Then all at once the contrast -seemed to reach her stunned soul—not darkness and the awful visitant -who had driven her out of herself, but light and that beloved face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345">{345}</a></span> -which poor Hetty thought she had not seen for years. She gave another -cry of recognition, “Mother!” and flung herself upon her mother’s -breast. Mrs. Asquith trembled with the shock, for Hetty plunged into her -arms and buried her face as if she had fled into some place of refuge; -but if it had been the weight of the great house, as well as that of -Hetty, Mary could have borne it in the sudden hope and relief of her -soul.</p> - -<p>“My dearest!” she said, “my sweet, my own Hetty, I’m here. There’s -nobody can touch you, I’m here! Don’t you know, my darling, your mother? -There’s nobody can touch you while I am here!”</p> - -<p>Hetty made no response in words, but she suspended her whole weight upon -her mother, clinging to her, burrowing with her head on Mary’s bosom. It -was no ordinary embrace; it was the taking of sanctuary, the entry into -a city of refuge. So far as the child was aware, she had found her -natural protector for the first time. She hid herself in Mary, -disappearing almost in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346">{346}</a></span> the close clasping arms, in the soft shield and -shelter of her mother’s form. Mary’s head was bowed down on Hetty’s; her -shoulders curved about her; the girl’s slim white figure almost -disappeared, all pressed, folded, enclosed in the mother’s embrace. This -was what the housekeeper saw when she rushed to the door, roused by the -scream, expecting some repetition of the former scene. Mary signed to -her with her eyes, having no other part of her free, to go away. She -made the same sign to Miss Hofland, who appeared in her nightdress, -trembling and distressed, behind the well-clothed housekeeper. Mary felt -that she dared not speak to them, dared not even move or say a word. The -success of all depended on her being left alone with her child.</p> - -<p>Even the movement of this interruption, however, though hushed and full -of precaution, aided the clearing of Hetty’s brain. She raised her head -for a moment, gave a furtive glance round. “Is he—is he—gone, mamma?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347">{347}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my darling; there is no one here but you and I.”</p> - -<p>Hetty moved a little more, and cast a tremulous glance, holding her -mother tighter and tighter, over her shoulders. “Is the window—shut? Is -it safe? Are you sure? Are you sure”—with another passionate strain, -under which Mary tottered, yet held up mechanically, she could not tell -how—“that he can’t come back?”</p> - -<p>To Hetty’s bewildered mind the terrible moment of that midnight visit -had only just passed. She knew nothing of the interval; nor did she ask -how it was that, miraculously, when she was most wanted, her mother had -come to her; that is always natural in a child’s experience. She wanted -no explanation of that, but only to make sure that the cause of her -terror had disappeared.</p> - -<p>“Darling, lie down and go to sleep. You are safe, quite safe. I am going -to stay with you, don’t you see? Could any harm happen to you and me -here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348">{348}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Hetty raised her head and turned her face upward for her mother’s kiss. -It was warm and soft with returning life. “No!” she said, with a -long-drawn breath, with that profound conviction of childhood. She had -turned into a child after her trance, all other development disappearing -for the moment. But her hands seemed incapable of disengaging -themselves. She could not loosen her hold. “Oh, mamma, don’t let me go! -oh, hold me fast! Oh, don’t let any one come, mamma!”</p> - -<p>“Nobody, my love; I won’t leave you, not for a moment—not for a moment, -Hetty.”</p> - -<p>After a while the girl fell fast asleep, with her head upon her mother’s -shoulder, and her arms so soft, yet clenched like iron round Mary’s -neck. Hetty was far too profoundly dependent, too desperate in her -absolute need, to be capable of thinking of the comfort of her shield -and guardian. Cramped and aching, but happy and relieved beyond -description in mind, Mary, too, after a while dozed and slept. When she -opened her eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349">{349}</a></span> the chill grey of the morning was coming on. The night -was over, with its dangers and fears. Hetty’s desperate clinging had -relaxed; her head was falling back; the soft warmth and ease of sleep -had softened all the rigidity of her trance away. Mary laid her down -softly upon her pillow with a light heart, though every limb and every -muscle was aching, and took her place once more by the bedside, that she -might be the first object on which her child’s waking eyes should rest. -And Hetty slept—how long she slept! Fatigue crept over Mrs. Asquith; -she dozed, and dreamed, and woke with a start, half-a-dozen times -before, in the full daylight, Hetty opened her eyes. There was a moment -of awful suspense—the blank look of her stupefied state seemed to waver -for an instant over her face, like a mist trembling, wavering, uncertain -whether to go or stay. Then light broke out, and love and meaning in the -girl’s eager look. “Oh, mamma!”</p> - -<p>There had been by this time many anxious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350">{350}</a></span> tappings at the door. Miss -Hofland had looked in with an anxious face; and little Rhoda, with eyes -full of awe, had peeped round the edge of the door; and the housekeeper, -with whispers and signs and that invariable cup of tea which is intended -to be the consolation of the watcher. But Mary would not be beguiled for -a moment from her child’s side; the danger was too near, the deliverance -too great, to be trifled with. And the other great questions which had -almost distracted her mind from Hetty came back as she waited. Hetty’s -murmurs in the hour of recollection had strangely, fantastically -strengthened her suspicions. Could she dare to recall Hetty, waking and -restored to reason, to that awful remembrance? Whatever happened she -could not risk her child.</p> - -<p>This question was put to rest later in the day by Hetty herself, who, -very weak, scarcely able to move with physical exhaustion, lay still in -her bed, regarding her mother with all a child’s beatitude. She had -heard all the nursery stories<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351">{351}</a></span> again, Rhoda assisting as before, and -laughed and cried and been happy in all the sweetness of convalescence -over the little witticisms of baby. But later, when Rhoda, was sent -away, Hetty lay very silent for a time, and then called her mother to -her bedside.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” she said, growing paler and deeply serious, “I wanted to ask -you, could he take me for Rhoda? Could he be—could he be—Rhoda’s -<i>father</i>, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Hetty,” said Mary, taking her child’s hands, “could you repeat to me, -my darling, quietly, without exciting yourself, what you told me in the -night? What he said?”</p> - -<p>The colour came in a flood to Hetty’s face, then ebbed away, leaving her -quite pale. She clasped her mother’s hands tight; and then she repeated -slowly, like a lesson, “Oh, my child, my little darling! have I found -you at latht?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Hetty! God bless you, my dearest! Why did you say ‘at latht’?” Mary -cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352">{352}</a></span></p> - -<p>Hetty looked at her mother with startled eyes. “I don’t know what I -said. I said only what he said, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Hetty,” cried Mary in great agitation, “I think God has sent us here, -both you and me.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_352.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_352.jpg" height="196" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353">{353}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_353.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_353.jpg" width="366" height="99" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE INVALID GENTLEMAN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>ARY stole out in the afternoon, when the day was beginning to wane. It -was not only that as soon as her anxieties were relieved the spell of -the old associations came back: a far more serious pre-occupation was in -her mind, though all was mystery round her. The question that had sprung -up within her came back and back like a fitful wind through all the -agitations and happiness of the day. Her body was altogether worn out by -excitement and anxiety, and by the long vigil of that troubled night; -but, as happens sometimes in such a case, her mind was only the more -eager and alive, her senses keener to everything around. She had sat by -Hetty’s bedside and talked all the day, talked till her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354">{354}</a></span> throat and -breast seemed to be strained with physical exertion, talked against -time, against weariness, that her child’s mind might be filled with the -peaceful image of home, so as to leave no room for those distracting -images which had jarred her whole being. Mary felt the strain of that -monologue almost more than any other form of fatigue. She was well used -to it, as to all other forms of exhaustion. Talking to children both her -own and others, telling stories, giving lessons, the sensation was not -new to her; but it made the silence and sweet air very grateful, as, -leaving Hetty once more asleep, with Miss Hofland established at her -bedside, she stole out into the great quiet of nature, into the dewy -park and wonderful serenity of the spring afternoon, as it began to -soften into night.</p> - -<p>The grass had been growing all day, the flowers struggling, making their -way upward, the young leaves unrolling their tightly-bound folds out of -their sheaths; and now all seemed to have paused in the midst of that -hopeful, cheerful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355">{355}</a></span> progress, to rest a little, to get strength for a -warmer effort still. Life, all thrilling through the awakened earth in -every vein, in every pore, paused in the midst of that warm impulse to -rest. She felt in sympathy with all the world, delivered from a terror -beyond description,—from death, and worse than death, her very -exhaustion adding to the refreshment and blessedness of that quiet and -repose. For the moment, except for a vague sense in her mind of an -uneasiness which she held at arm’s length, she was able to give herself -up entirely to this tranquil sweetness. She wandered out, going round -the old house, with every line of which her eyes were familiar, the dear -old house, about which she had tripped in her childhood, when she had -been “only Mary,” running everybody’s errands, doing what everybody told -her—a little unconsidered happy creature, sent up and down, here and -there, but never unkindly, never untenderly, she said to herself with -tears in her eyes. Oh, never unkind! nothing but a little wholesome -neglect, the carelessness of familiarity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356">{356}</a></span> which in its way was sweet. -She had not been like her own children, wrapped in love from their -cradles, their little interests and pleasures put above everything; but -Mary knew that she had been as happy as a lamb or a bird—creatures -which have no special tendance, but to which all nature is sweet. She -had never known what harsh words were, or harsh judgments. They had let -her grow like a flower; they had kept her from the colds and from the -heats of life; covered her and sheltered her, and loved her in their -way. She looked back upon her young life with a tender gratitude, more -profound than if they had made her the chief object. She had not been so -to any one in Horton, but how much more, she said to herself, in -consequence, all their sweetness and kindness was. To make your own -child happy, upon whom your happiness depends, what is that but -selfishness of the most refined kind? But to make a little creature -happy upon whom your happiness does not depend—is not that true love, -the charity of the Gospel? She thought of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357">{357}</a></span> them all who had been so good -to her, so kind, so careless, so indulgent, her heart swelling with -tenderness and gratitude.</p> - -<p>When she had got far enough off to take in the full view of the house, -she turned back, renewing as it were her acquaintance with it, following -with tender recollection every line and curve. It was changed in some -respects. The front of the house had been renovated, some parts of the -architecture carefully restored, the grounds about the house all put -into luxurious order. Altogether, she said to herself, it looked as if a -wave of prosperity had visited the place, as if there were no longer a -deficiency of gardeners or of servants to keep it in perfection, as -there once was. The lawn looked as if it were rolled every day; there -was no sign of neglect anywhere—and once there had been so many signs. -Only one thing in which there was no change met her eyes. The east wing -was all shut up as of old, the windows closely shuttered, every opening -closed. All the same, and yet a little different. In former<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358">{358}</a></span> days it had -been evidently a natural expedient, the shutting up of a portion of the -house which the family was not numerous enough or wealthy enough to keep -up. Now it was different. It was an obvious breach of the wealthy -propriety of the place, about which there was no indication that such an -expedient could be necessary. Mary walked slowly round that side of the -house. The shutting up even was not as before. It was far more -elaborate, done with precaution, as if with the view of closing the -interior from all inspection. In the old times, no one had minded what -loop-hole there might be; appearances had not been thought of. And then -her heart began to beat loudly in her ears. Was it possible that this -was a prison, a place of confinement? and who was it that was shut up -there?</p> - -<p>Who was it that could be shut up there? By what right or wrong, without -warrant or authority, nobody knowing, nobody able to help! All the -questions that had been in Mary’s mind, suspended by her exhaustion, and -by the grateful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359">{359}</a></span> quiet of which she had so much need, sprang up again in -the fullest force. The strange words which Hetty had murmured in her -trance, which she had repeated when in full possession of her mind, -which had evidently engraved themselves on her brain, and which had -roused her mother to one sudden gleam of enlightenment, came back to her -again and seemed to echo in her ears. She had put them away after that -first impression. How could it be? Why should it be? In those days such -things could not happen. Shut up the master of the house in his own -habitation, separate him from his child, conceal him from the world! How -could it be? Who could do it? The motives and the means seemed both -wanting. But Mary’s brain throbbed and whirled, even as she said all -this to herself. She forgot even Hetty in the gathering excitement of -her mind. She walked up and down, up and down, at the foot of the grassy -slope on which those barricaded windows opened. Yes, they had always -been barricaded, but not as they were now!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360">{360}</a></span></p> - -<p>The night began to darken round her; already the shrubberies, the -distant trees in the park, began to grow indistinct. The veil of the -twilight dropped slowly over the brightness of the sky. But Mary took no -notice; her steps made no sound upon the damp and mossy velvet of the -turf; her mind grew every moment less under her own control. What could -she do to satisfy that question? Was he there? Who was he? What could -she do? She was but a stranger, though a child of the house; she had -nothing to prove that the invalid gentleman of whom the doctor had -spoken, the wanderer who had broken in upon her child’s rest, had in -reality any connection with the family, or was one for whom she could -interfere: and how could she interfere?—a stranger, a poor woman, the -mother of Miss Rotherham’s companion. That was all Mary was to the -servants and people about. And the invalid might be a stranger too, for -anything she could tell; he might be—anyone. What right had she to jump -to a conclusion, and decide thus who he was? But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361">{361}</a></span> she could not go in -quietly and sit down, and take care of her child, and perhaps sleep, -while all the while, close to her, within her reach, might be shut up, -deprived of everything, one who perhaps was the rightful master of all. -But how could that be? How could that be? Why, and with what motive, -could such a thing be done? Her brain turned round more than ever, her -mind was all confused, hanging in the misery of doubt and helplessness, -suspended between the how and the why.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she heard a stealthy sound behind her, as of an opened window -or door. She was at the end of the slope, and turned round quickly at -this indication of some one moving. At the end of the long range of -windows she saw a head put dimly forth, and then disappear. Mary divined -that it was her own appearance, vague as it must be in the twilight, -which was the cause. She changed her position, rapidly concealing -herself behind a clump of laurels, and waited. After a little interval -there was a faint stir once more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362">{362}</a></span> Almost afraid to breathe, she looked -out between the thick leaves. Something had come out into the dimness of -the night. She felt only as Hetty had done, a movement, a something that -was human, a new breathing in the still atmosphere. The leaves rustled -now and then in the night air, and she felt as if it must be she who did -it, and put her hands upon the bough to keep them still. A strange -horror, half superstitious, came over her; something was coming without -any sound, with nothing but a consciousness in the tingling atmosphere. -She forgot the yielding of the turf, in which no footstep was audible. -It seemed to her that something incorporate, some vision sensible to the -mind alone, must be moving past unseen. Terror took possession of her -soul. Was it this then, and not any suffering human creature, some one -who had <i>come back</i>, some one out of the darkness of the grave, whose -presence should chill the blood in her veins, as he had chilled her -child’s. Mary felt as if she hung by her hands from the laurel boughs, -which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363">{363}</a></span> had grasped to keep them still. Then, with a sensation of -utter horror, she felt herself slip from them, her hands relaxing. It -had passed; her heart stood still; the surging blood went up and up in -blinding circles to her brain. Then there was a sudden calm in her -being, and the common action of life was taken up again in a moment. In -front of her, going softly across the dim lawn, was a long slim shadow, -the head bent a little, the gait uncertain, swaying as if with weakness. -Mary’s superstitious terrors had vanished in a moment. It was a man she -saw; who he was no one could have told, in the faint evening, on the -noiseless grass; but at all events it was a man.</p> - -<p>Mary’s faculties all came back. Suppose the guess she had made was -right, suppose it was <i>he</i>, with only herself in all the world to -protect him! She disengaged herself from the bushes, and gliding from -one shelter to another, sometimes dropping to the ground in her terror, -lest he should be alarmed and fly from her, she followed. The night was -soft and dim, wrapping all things in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364">{364}</a></span> ghostly shadow; but she never -lost sight of the vague, moving thing winding out and in among the -bushes, avoiding with a kind of strange skill the front of the house. He -made a long round, and Mary kept up mechanically, always following, her -limbs failing under her. When he had got round to the other side, he -drew slowly near to the corresponding range of windows in the western -wing; and after various falterings mounted the slope, and made his way -along close to the house. The faltering, stealthy figure stealing along, -now with a foot upon the ledge of stone, now all noiseless upon the -turf, made her half shudder with terror, notwithstanding the excitement, -which was all of which she was now sensible, the only thing that kept -her up. Should anyone within catch a glimpse of the noiseless shadow -thus stealing round the house, what wonder if panic and maddening terror -should follow his steps! Mary, stumbling on, felt that she was going -through all that was preliminary to that midnight visit which had half -crazed her child. The gliding figure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365">{365}</a></span> suddenly stopped. She saw it -pause, turn inward, put up two arms to the window. Thank God, it was no -longer Hetty’s window; the child was safe. And once more, once more—by -what chance who could tell?—the opening gave way. With a last effort of -strength pulling herself together, Mary climbed the slope.</p> - -<p>It had become so dark without that the night had seemed far advanced, -but within lights were shining. The door of the room stood open, -admitting a cheerful glimmer; the sound of voices was audible. Mary came -quickly in, shutting the window behind her, her excitement risen to -fever point. She found herself confronting the ghostly figure, which -stood bewildered in the middle of the room. Even now, even here, sure as -she was that it was a man, and a helpless one, who stood before her, the -horrible alternative, the wild suggestion, that at her touch that shadow -might dissolve and melt away, and leave her mad with the awful -encounter, flashed through Mary’s confused brain. To stand by him in the -dark room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366">{366}</a></span> was somehow more appalling than to follow through the free -air and space. But it was only in that flash that she remembered herself -at all. The poor wanderer had known his way when he was making that -devious course round the house: he had come soberly with an evident -intention through the clumps and <i>bosquets</i> to this window—he had meant -all along to get here, to enter by it, to pursue his wild search for his -child. But the open door on the other side, the lights gleaming, the -sounds of the household, all active and awake, bewildered him. He -stopped short; perhaps he had already seen that there was no one in the -bed. He stood wavering, tremulous, diverted from his intention, looking -wildly round him. When he caught sight of Mary he shrank back, as if to -escape. Trembling as she was, her lips almost refusing to utter the -words that came to them, her limbs to support her, she tottered up to -him, and caught him by the arm.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, retreating a little before her. “Don’t be angry—I -wanted to thee my little girl.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367">{367}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, John!” cried Mary. “Cousin John!—oh, dear John, you that were -always so good, why won’t they let you live as you ought in your own -house?”</p> - -<p>He stepped still further back, with a gesture of dismay. “Who is that?” -he said. “You’re not Mrs. Mills. I don’t know who you are.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, John, you know me, if you will only think; I’m Mary. You -remember Mary, your little cousin, to whom you were always so good?”</p> - -<p>“Mary?” he said. “I know your voice, and I know your name: but they will -not like it. They thay I’m not fit—Mary—I wonder if I would know you -if I thaw you. But don’t tell them I’m here; I daren’t go into the -light.”</p> - -<p>“Cousin John,” said Mary, “tell me who you think I am.”</p> - -<p>He drew back a little farther; it seemed to bewilder him to be so near -her. “I think,” he said, “you must be little Mary that used to be at -home in the old time, Mary that wath married to the curate. I wath very -found of Mary. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368">{368}</a></span> don’t tell them I’m here. I’ll go back—I’ll go -back—to my own little place.”</p> - -<p>“This is your place, John. Oh, dear John, who has done this to you? You -shall not go back; you shall stay in your own house, John.”</p> - -<p>“It will only get you into trouble,” he said in a dreamy tone. “She -thaid—she told me——” his voice ran off into a murmur of sound; -perhaps the effect of that <i>she</i>, which he uttered with a sharp -sibilation, was too much for him; or perhaps the thought of her was too -much. “Perhapth I had better go back.”</p> - -<p>“No,” cried Mary, grasping his arm with both her hands. “Come with me -and see your little girl.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my little girl: my little darling!” the poor fellow cried, and -resisted no more.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_368.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_368.jpg" width="227" height="111" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369">{369}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a><br /> -<a href="images/ill_pg_369.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_369.jpg" width="354" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<br />CHAPTER XXV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE RESTORATION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>HODA’S sitting-room was very warm and pleasant and quiet, the safest -and most comfortable place—the fire lighting it up with fitful gleams, -the windows still glimmering between the curtains with the dim twilight -which had not turned to dark, the pictures and mirrors on the walls -giving forth gleams of ruddy reflection. There were no longer flowers -outside to brighten the prospect, but within groups of plants in every -corner, and a tall pot of creamy, fragrant narcissus spreading its -delicate spring scent through the room. The warm flicker of the -firelight seemed to draw out the sweetness of the flowers, the deeper -tints of colour, the reds and browns of the furniture. There could not -have been a woman’s apartment more entirely breathing of women, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370">{370}</a></span> of -comfort, and tranquillity, and peace. Hetty lay on the sofa near the -fire, the ruddy glow shedding a pink colour over her still pale face. -Rhoda sat at her feet, leaning against the sofa, holding up her eager -little face, asking questions in her eager way about Hetty’s home, about -the children, about baby, who was so funny. “Oh! I wish I could see him. -Oh, I wish I could go and play with them all!” Rhoda said. Hetty, who -had been removed here in her mother’s absence to join the little party -once more, in the sweetness of that convalescence, which was almost more -than coming back to health, lay smiling, answering the child’s questions -in a little broken voice of weakness and happiness. Miss Hofland sat on -a low chair by the fire, going through her usual little calculations, -setting down all the comforts on one side against the very curious -condition of this house on the other. All these things that had happened -were very mysterious. The whispers of the maids, which could scarcely -fail to reach her, were full of suggestions. It was not pleasant to live -in a house where such strange things were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371">{371}</a></span> heard and seen; but then, on -the other hand, it was very comfortable. There was scarcely anything one -wanted that one could not have. In some families the treatment was very -different. She was putting these things meditatively against one another -when the servant came in with the lamp. There was an abundant supply of -light, as of everything else—no stint of anything—lamps and candles, -it did not seem to matter how many were used. It was very comfortable, -enough to make up for the many unpleasant circumstances which did not -after all touch either her pupil or herself.</p> - -<p>Just then the servant, going away after he had placed the lamp, uttered -a cry of alarm, and seemed to fall back against the wall, letting go the -handle of the door. Miss Hofland started up, feeling that if anything -dreadful came in here, into this warm and pleasant place, all the -comfort would not make up for such an interruption. She rose so -hurriedly that her chair turned over, coming down with a muffled sound -on the carpet, and turned her startled face towards the door. Mrs. -Asquith had just come in, looking very pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372">{372}</a></span> and excited, leaning upon -the arm of—no, she was not leaning, she was guiding him with her hand -through his arm—a tall, slim man with a strange grey coat, too large -for him, and wrapping over his shadowy thinness, a long face, with large -projecting eyes, grizzled hair hanging wildly, a ragged beard, and -drooping, melancholy moustache hiding the outlines of the tremulous -mouth. He had a bewildered, dazed look, and turned his head slowly from -side to side, as if he scarcely saw, and did not know where he was.</p> - -<p>And before a word could be said, almost before the attention of the -girls had been roused, or Miss Hofland’s cry of alarm got vent, the -housekeeper rushed into the room. She swept into it like a whirlwind, -and placed herself at the other side of that strange figure.</p> - -<p>“Sir, sir!” she cried, “you must go back, you must go back—you must not -be seen here!”</p> - -<p>“John!” cried Mrs. Asquith, “don’t give way to her; this is your house, -and here is your child.”</p> - -<p>He turned his face from one side to the other,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373">{373}</a></span> shrinking a little from -the housekeeper, yet making a step back as if in obedience—appealing to -Mary, yet drawing his arm away from hers in a self-contradictory -movement, opening his mouth but only with a gasp, saying nothing.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mills put her hand upon his sleeve.</p> - -<p>“Come back, sir,” she said; “come back, oh! come back to your own -comfortable room, where things are fit and proper for you. My mistress -would break her heart if she thought you were here. Oh, sir, come back! -You know what my mistress would say, and that it’s all for your good. -What does she think of night and day but for your good?”</p> - -<p>He gasped again as if for breath, and then drew away, retreating a -little. “Mary,” he said, “perhapth she’s right. I’ll be better in my own -place.” As he stood thus irresolute, feeble, with a woman on each side -of him, a picture of a bewildered soul cowed with long subjection, there -came into the movement of the strange little drama another unexpected -actor. Hetty had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374">{374}</a></span> sprung up from her sofa, forgetting her weakness, -putting out her hands at first as if to keep away the sight; and her -movement had disturbed Rhoda, who sprang up too, and stood for a moment -astonished, taking in the scene. Then with a cry the little girl flung -herself forward, clutching at the grey coat, clinging to his knees. -“Father!” she cried. Her little voice, shrill in its childish tones, -rang through the air like the ring of a pistol shot, clearing away the -mist. He gave a great, sobbing cry, shook himself clear, and stooping -down, gathered the child into his arms. They all stood round, a group of -hushed spectators, to watch that meeting. He seemed to grope for a -chair, and sat down and folded her to him. “My little girl, my darling! -my little girl, my darling! I’ve found you at latht!” Hetty tottered -across the floor to her mother, and caught her arm and clung to her, -hiding her head upon Mary’s shoulder. And behind them all young Darrell -came in, and stood looking on like the rest.</p> - -<p>Even the housekeeper had been paralysed by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375">{375}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/ill_pg_375.jpg"> -<img src="images/ill_pg_375.jpg" width="569" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>MY LITTLE GIRL, MY DARLING!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> (<i>p. 374.</i>)</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377">{377}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376">{376}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">this touching sight; she had not been able to speak or interfere, but at -the appearance of Darrell she recovered herself. “Doctor,” she said, -going up to him, “you know what our orders are, you know he’ll hurt -himself by this, you know it’s for his good—for his good. What were we -put here for but for his good? And who is this lady that has ventured to -interfere? Doctor, call Turner, call the man, and take him back. I order -you,” cried the woman, “in my mistress’s name, take him back. Sir, sir, -Mr. Prescott! take the child from him, take him back.”</p> - -<p>No one paid any attention to her cries, and the woman was almost beside -herself. “Miss Hofland,” she said, “it’s as much as our places are -worth. You said yourself it was a comfortable house. Oh, for goodness’ -sake take the child from him, take the child from him! Don’t you know -he’s off his head? I’ve got my mistress’s authority. -Turner—doctor—this moment, he must be taken back!”</p> - -<p>Little Rhoda here released herself from her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378">{378}</a></span> father’s arms. She put -herself before him like a guardian spirit, not angel, for her eyes -flashed fire, and her little hands clenched. “If you touch him I’ll kill -you! I’ll kill you!” cried the little girl, setting her white teeth.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Mills,” said Mary, “the time for all that is over; I am here to -protect my cousin. Whatever your mistress may do or say, I am his -nearest relation here. We can take care of Mr. Prescott without you; he -shall neither be shut up nor coerced again. Doctor, he knows us all; he -only wants his child; he is as gentle as an infant. Why should he be -shut up and banished from the light of day?”</p> - -<p>“There is no reason at all,” young Darrell said. “I am ashamed of my -part in it. It was I who opened the door to him to-night; I hoped that -this would happen which has happened. I don’t know if you will ever -believe that I acted at first in good faith. There is no reason, no -reason at all, for keeping him confined now.”</p> - -<p>John Prescott sat holding his child with one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379">{379}</a></span> arm round her, looking out -solemnly upon the group about him. There was something in the aspect of -his large immovable eyes, showing that he saw imperfectly if at all, -which strangely heightened the effect of the scene. He put out his other -arm as if feeling for some one. “Mary, Mary! Wasn’t Mary here?”</p> - -<p>She came up to him and took his hand. “Yes, John, I am here, I am here: -nobody shall touch you. They daren’t touch you while I am here.”</p> - -<p>It was the second time in twenty-four hours that she had brought peace -and security by these words—she, a helpless woman, the poor parson’s -wife, never of much account in the world—and yet they were true! But -probably John Prescott did not make any question to himself how that -was, or even understand clearly what she was doing for him. He grasped -her hand, making no reply to what she said. “Mary,” he said slowly, “I -want your advice.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, John.”</p> - -<p>“Mutht a man do all his wife says? Sh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380">{380}</a></span>e’s clever, and I’m not. I never -was one of the clever fellowths. She’s gone away, and I promithed— But, -Mary, I want my little girl.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, John, and you shall have her. You shall not be parted again,” Mary -cried with tears.</p> - -<p>“I want my little girl. They say I frightened thome one that wasn’t -mine; I ask her pardon, I’m sure. I never meant to frighten any one; all -I want ith my little girl.”</p> - -<p>“Father, here I am!” cried little Rhoda, one arm clasping his, one -uplifted in defence.</p> - -<p>“And, Cousin John, oh! I love you too: I wasn’t frightened,” Hetty -cried.</p> - -<p>The sound of this prodigious falsehood, told with all the conviction of -the heart, brought a note of something like laughter into the room, when -this scene ended, the strange little drama, which, but for Hetty’s -fright and Mary’s arrival, might have been a tragedy, and ended in a -very different way.</p> - -<p>The explanation of the circumstances was not difficult to give. John -Prescott had married, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381">{381}</a></span> rather, to use a juster phraseology, had been -married to, a Californian lady with a great fortune, who had come to -England to dazzle the old civilization, as so many do. But the earl, or -the viscount, or the duke’s son, who are the natural prey of such -conquering invaders, had not turned up, and the beautiful old house, and -the armorial bearings of the Prescotts, and all that was old and -traditionary about them, had been felt by Miss Rotherham to be next -best. To say that her husband belonged to the old untitled aristocracy, -who looked upon new lordships with contempt, was so refined and -exquisite a piece of brag that the imagination of the daughter of the -wilds was captivated by it. And John looked every inch an effete -aristocrat, languid with over-civilization. She took him, with his old -place and impoverished estate, as if he had been a choicer piece of -antiquated lumber than all the rest. But when she had been married for a -few years to John, that vivacious representative of the New World had -found her stupid Englishman too much for her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382">{382}</a></span> His very goodness had -driven her frantic. He had submitted to almost anything she exacted, -with a dull amiability which took all her patience from her. Finally he -had got blind, or almost blind, but never otherwise than patient, -uncomplaining, and kind, adoring his child, who adored him, and very -submissive to his wife. And she did not find her untitled aristocracy -did her much good in a social point of view. The compatriots who had -secured the earls and the viscounts laughed, and the Prescotts had -fallen out of society too long in the days of their poverty to recover -their position easily. And John was dull. Ye heavens! how dull he -was—dull even to the simple people who loved him at home—how much more -dull to the lively Transatlantic who had intended to build her -advancement upon him, but never had loved him at all!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Asquith found out by degrees that her cousin’s wife had tried to -make him out incapable of managing his affairs, and to get him shut up, -which was unkind, seeing that he was perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383">{383}</a></span> content to commit to her -hands the management of these affairs, and never grumbled at her -absences, or found fault with her proceedings, too happy to be left with -Rhoda in the home he loved. Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham, however, had failed -in this, and thereupon had organized another plan for freeing herself -from circumstances which she would not tolerate. To have great wealth -and belong to a new civilization in which there is little bondage of -precedent, and not to have whatever you like, whatever you can pay for, -is intolerable. It is always intolerable not to be able to do what one -pleases, and have what one likes; but these are things which most people -have to put up with. Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham did not see why she should -put up with anything she disliked so much, and she went off to America -to obtain a divorce. If she had told John this, the probabilities were -that, unless some sudden gleam of religious objection had crossed the -tranquillity of his dulled brain, he would have acquiesced, as he did -everything else. But there are limits to the boldness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384">{384}</a></span> even of a rich -Californian, accustomed to see all obstacles disappear before her. And -what she did was to persuade her husband that to confine himself -entirely to his own rooms would be good for his eyes and for his health, -and that until her return it was his policy to lead a secluded life. She -pointed out to him the misery of being plagued by visitors, the trouble -which even Rhoda’s governess would bring upon him, and that to seclude -himself in the east wing while she was absent was the best thing he -could do. Poor John did not know till she was gone that he was to be -secluded from Rhoda too; but though it was very difficult to manage him -when he learned this, yet he was smoothed down and coaxed into patience -for the time. Needless to say that of the divorce suit going briskly on -on the other side of the Atlantic nobody knew. The citation to John to -appear had been conveyed to him in a newspaper, which he had solemnly -opened, as was his wont, looked at with his half-blind eyes, and put -away with the remark that there was nothing in it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385">{385}</a></span> He was indeed more -than half blind, and the paper conveyed to him no information at all.</p> - -<p>It is needless to say that Mrs. Prescott-Rotherham obtained her divorce -in the American court, but that the English law, as was natural, took no -notice of that decree, and altogether refused to take Rhoda from her -father’s keeping. It is equally of course that from the moment when Mary -led him back into his own house, there could be no question of secluding -him any more. He was as sane as he had ever been, understanding -everything that was kind and friendly, not wise nor yet abundant in -speech, which would have been out of nature. The poor relation, who was -only Mary, and the poor parson whom she had married, protected his -gentle weakness, and John Prescott, with his patient yet half-tragic -face, his almost sightless eyes, and his little story of undeserved -wrong, wrong of which even now he was barely conscious, opining that his -wife had only gone to visit her relations and meant no harm, made a -great impression upon the Com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386">{386}</a></span>missioners in Lunacy who examined him, and -pronounced in his favour authoritatively, adding however a gentle -recommendation that in view of his yielding character he should have -some relation to stay with and to take care of him. This condition was -fulfilled by the return of his sister Anna from India, widowed, shortly -after, and thus everything was set right.</p> - -<p>Hetty took no harm from that attack, which might have been shortened or -even averted if any one had been as bold as her mother. Mr. Darrell was -of opinion that she required very careful watching for a long -time—watching which the young man was too willing to give. He remained -in the position of the family doctor for some time after for this cause, -in his anxiety about Hetty’s health: and as soon as her parents consider -her old enough there is little doubt that he will get his reward.</p> - -<p>John Prescott was left poor when his wife, baffled yet emancipated, took -away her money, as when the negotiations were all over she was at -liberty to do—but without the child, who clung to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387">{387}</a></span> him, and would not -hear a word said of her mother. He was left quite poor, poorer even than -the Prescotts had been in Mary’s early days. But yet there was something -in Cousin John’s power. One morning, about a year after, the post -brought news of the death of the Rev. Hugh Prescott, the rector of -Horton, in one of the villages of the Riviera where he had lived so -long. In strict justice the appointment ought to have gone to the old -clergyman who had officiated as his <i>locum tenens</i> for a dozen years. -But when was strict justice ever regarded in this world? John would -receive no council on this matter. He had been pronounced able to manage -his own affairs, and in this one point at least he was determined to do -so. He tried, in his blindness to write a letter to Mary with his own -hands offering the Rectory to her husband. The letter was illegible, but -the purpose was carried out, and thus Mary returned with all her -children to the home of her youth.</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak of it, Miss Hetty; don’t speak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388">{388}</a></span> of it,” said the old -clergyman. “If you think I know so little of the world as to believe -that the claims of pure justice, as you call it, could ever stand -against the claims of the Squire’s cousin— But your father is a good -man, and you and your mother have been the saving of the Prescotts, and -I don’t grudge it, though perhaps it is a little hard upon me.”</p> - -<p>Everything that is good for one is a little hard perhaps for some one -else—or almost everything. Mary thinks sometimes that it is a little -hard upon Mrs. Rotherham, once Prescott, to be deprived of her only -child; but then, when a woman cannot put up with a dull husband, which -is so much less a matter than many other matrimonial burdens, what can -she expect? And on the whole, no doubt everything is for the best.</p> - -<p class="fint"> -<i>Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.</i><br /> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cousin Mary, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN MARY *** - -***** This file should be named 63302-h.htm or 63302-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/3/0/63302/ - -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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